There is a space in my body,
a room,
that serves no function.
It is empty.
Filled with broken things,
who's shapes I remember with fondness, angst,
and not at all.

All of the walls have holes punched out of them
or into them,
depending on the day.
Most times,
I am not sure where it is.
But I feel it screech as its pushed and pulled
on the worn out track
between my head and chest.

I will be waiting there for you
with matches.
You will come
bearing gasoline.

And it when it feels full
for the first time
I will set it ablaze.
Then we will sleep,
comfortable and warm,
close to our flames.