2 fitted sheets, stretched and tucked atop each other. A nesting home for soft bugs with thousands of legs, in which you cannot see. Why does it smell like Michigan basement bathrooms, and size 4 feet in turtle sandboxes.
Painted, chipped, salvageable wood only shows it's gritty teeth in the day light. leaking through shower curtain rings on the makeshift curtains like pool water through the cracks in your smiling eyes, blue goggles, the ones that cover the nose.
the longer you listen to the silence, the louder it gets. or is that the sounds of fan blades ripping through the indescribable texture of the stale air you swim through each night.
You'd swear you experienced a sonic boom here, the bull whip cracking from over pressure. or is it under pressure? I always thought that pressure weighed like pounds and tons. I still don't know if that is wrong.
I won't remember the sound of your laugh, or the way you smell, or the clothes you wore when we met. Like a good poet should. But I'll remember all the things we forgot to do together. All the times we spoke but got too high to listen.
High, like the time I told you I thought the trees and the sun were making strobe lights for our long drive into October. Flashing light in the car windows, as we drove down the open freeway.
It's easy to remember the world was made for us, when we are alone, here, in this room, together, like we were before, and will be soon once again.