The laundry is done
I am safe and warm in a pile of it on the floor
from the sheets and towels
I stare up at him adoringly.
“You are a gorgeous creature”
said the man on the television to the woman he loved.
“You are a gorgeous creature” he said to me.
I climbed to his lap to rest my cheek against his.

I haven't got upstairs yet
want it to be when my eyes are heavy that I fall into bed
my very own bed.
I want it to be a truthful sweet moment
alone with my thoughts and my sheets.
Finally to be home.
Home is just a word.
All I need is a place where people love me,
and feed me,
and sweep my hair out of my eyes.
It could be anywhere.
But when I stepped out of the cold into the foyer;
then into the den
and no one knew I was there yet, I saw the clock.
The old maritime chipped-gold-plated clock that chimes on the hour.
Had not moved since 7:27 very many months ago,
since last time I was here.
This has been my job since I was very young.
Open the clock face and reset the time to 2:27
To grab the gold key hidden under it's wooden frame,
to first twist the clockwork cog that creaks and
hear the ticking alive again from turning wheels.
Then the cog that works the bell,
and flick the hidden switch to turn on the chime.
Close the face with a click and sigh
as my family runs in to greet me.

Let’s just kiss and make something up.
It’s plain that I’m not sleeping enough
as a practiced insomniac you know,
and make coffee for us in the morning.

Last night we fell over laughing,
exhaling smoke I drawled,
“Everything in this kitchen it sticky”
everything.
For five minutes I think we laughed.

I made brownies.
You held me around the waist,
and spoke with your eyes.

I don't have walls
rather fences
your brain could hop

4am made me cry
to see behind glasses
into eyes

Sometimes it’s easy to think that he might love me.
Curled up on the couch like it’s Sunday afternoon
he kisses my forehead softly.
Our faces touch, his cheekbone up against my nose.
Eyes closed we sigh and enjoy the feeling.

He asks if he’s a good blanket.
I say I’ve had softer but never sweeter.

We are not paying attention to the television.
I am stuck in feeling his hands playing with my hair,
and tracing my bones
up to my neck, asks if my necklace is real pearls.
I tell him yes they are real,
you can tell because they are imperfect,
and that is what gives them away
as genuine.

Strawberry ***** veins,
pronounce "Appalachia"
(correctly?)
Take care of me.