are my place
not a palace, not a mansion,
not a pretty cottage by the lake.
You are a tiny studio
in an old building; all bricks and cement
with dying plants and obnoxious curtains.
You are my books on the shelf.
You are my perfume in the cabinet.
You are the fresh groceries on the counter.
You are the lock I fumble with
after a long day - as I toss my keys
and kick my shoes
I stumble to