ive lived from boxes
for the past five years
laying my head on unsteady ground
(in my childhood home)
my posters and photos
stay rolled up, packed away
the walls refuse their intimacy
(the paint is peeling)
i sleep in this room
but i keep my distance
insulated by a thin film of uncertainty
(like the skin of an apple)
(but)
when im truly temporary
only a few days, a week
i feel more permanent
(when im with you)
it anchors me and tugs me forward
through the slog of life
towards any kind of permanence
with you
(it doesnt matter)
and i think that after decades
we'll look at the walls
past the photos and posters
and we'll smile
(the paint is peeling)