Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
aya-baker-1Poems
he paints me reading a book in my faded nightie lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by he never lets me see them. i write of him padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and blue plaid boxers thanking the people who buy his paintings wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt saving the world i never let him read them. we share a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t know how to cook bookshelves that line our every wall snapshots of the city, framed in matte black wood and macaroni, in the hall we don’t invite people over. our parents don’t send christmas cards anymore stopped paying for university tuition and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we aren’t allowed to see (but helen sends pictures in the mail) they can’t take away our love.
0
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
Give me your estranged, your struggling, huddled couples yearning to be free
he paints me reading a book in my faded nightie lounging on the armchair with a daisy in my hair huddled by the window looking at the cars passing by he never lets me see them. i write of him padding around our apartment in bunny slippers and blue plaid boxers thanking the people who buy his paintings wiping the lenses of his glasses with the hem of his shirt saving the world i never let him read them. we share a tiny kitchenette we don’t use because we don’t know how to cook bookshelves that line our every wall snapshots of the city, framed in matte black wood and macaroni, in the hall we don’t invite people over. our parents don’t send christmas cards anymore stopped paying for university tuition and his sister helen gave birth to a baby we aren’t allowed to see (but helen sends pictures in the mail) they can’t take away our love.
aya-baker-1
Written by
aya-baker-1
Singaporean
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem