Ikea
Sometimes when I think of you, I think of you as an electric chair.
But you are disguised (in my head) as a comfortable sofa with twill cushions and soft, blank buttons.
Sometimes I breathe you in and I remember you as a Tuesday.
You will walk by, your head held high and I will pretend my shoes are brand new and interesting.
Sometimes when I picture you, you are held together with Scotch tape. (Since you are so gentle and nearly broken and have tried fixing yourself over and over again from the messes your grandfathers left.)
When you walk, you sway. Almost like a broken ladder.
And when I laugh at how ridiculous you make me feel, I can imagine the sleep scratching at the corners of your eyelids.
When I said your prologues are better than your endings, I meant it. But, please don't ask me to explain that one.
You remind me of fall leaves when they hit the ground and are stomped on by the neighbors and their hound dogs.
Sometimes I just want to learn about you.
Trace the insides of your palm and read your future and pretend that I am part of it.
Say things like, "See that line? It's your fate line. And my name is engraved inside it."
You also remind me of the first time I prayed.
I remember begging that aunt Maureen would keep breathing but God shushed me and put her on his infinite carousel above cloud nine.
One day I want to spraypaint with you.
I want to whisper nonsense that means something and watch the words fall from your ear, down your neck and over your broad shoulders past the crevices and into your heart.
And I would tell you this, all of it, if I didn't speak fluent silence.
But you are disguised (in my head) as a comfortable sofa with twill cushions and soft, blank buttons.
Sometimes I breathe you in and I remember you as a Tuesday.
You will walk by, your head held high and I will pretend my shoes are brand new and interesting.
Sometimes when I picture you, you are held together with Scotch tape. (Since you are so gentle and nearly broken and have tried fixing yourself over and over again from the messes your grandfathers left.)
When you walk, you sway. Almost like a broken ladder.
And when I laugh at how ridiculous you make me feel, I can imagine the sleep scratching at the corners of your eyelids.
When I said your prologues are better than your endings, I meant it. But, please don't ask me to explain that one.
You remind me of fall leaves when they hit the ground and are stomped on by the neighbors and their hound dogs.
Sometimes I just want to learn about you.
Trace the insides of your palm and read your future and pretend that I am part of it.
Say things like, "See that line? It's your fate line. And my name is engraved inside it."
You also remind me of the first time I prayed.
I remember begging that aunt Maureen would keep breathing but God shushed me and put her on his infinite carousel above cloud nine.
One day I want to spraypaint with you.
I want to whisper nonsense that means something and watch the words fall from your ear, down your neck and over your broad shoulders past the crevices and into your heart.
And I would tell you this, all of it, if I didn't speak fluent silence.