I told him I didn't mind
that it was cold in there.
That the wind blew through it
like it was made of mesh-screen.
Or that the idiot next door,
he played the same beat on the drum,
night after night, day after day.
"I don't mind," I said, "that some
ranting, raving, mad woman screams orders
at the drummer constantly, either."
"I don't mind," I told him.
But I couldn't keep the place.
He just assumed I'd meant an apartment,
or a house, maybe some flat downtown.
He's silly. I'd meant my heart.