Note: the lack of capitalization is intentional.
I am two backpacks by the bathroom door
and a blanket draped on the corner couch
where the cushions don’t fit quite right.
and we drag ourselves about the house,
ghostly until dusk when someone, somewhere
plays an 8-bit remix of asong i think i know.
in a matter of hours, we’ve filled a frisbee with cigarette butts.
mourn for the soul of every red solo cup we crumple up
while left-over pepperoni is passed around
on shredded pizza boxes and greasy paper towels.
we've barely scraped by through rain showers and flowers
while an army of june beetles is preparing to ambush the porch.
we're always tip toeing to the bathroom on eggshells
and broken glass from the hookah that teetered last night
from the table to the floor, dropping coals that singed the carpet.
and finally the night begins to sigh itself to sleep,
until all that remains is a puddle on the couch,
where you and i sit in uncomfortable silence.