you're rounding out corners,
you're seeking something straight and narrow.
you're creeping around the floors of the house
seeking something rotten.
what is there in the silence that cannot be said?

the walls are made of cardboard,
in this house.
the skylights aren't there on purpose,
the view of the night sky isn't meant to be.
the walls melt down to the ground when it rains,
in this house.

you don't owe me a thing:
i will be lucky to escape with my heart in my chest
and my soul in my mouth.
you owe me the opportunity to take you for granted.
you owe me many, many quiet moments spent in love,
a thousand and one nights of sleeping alone,
twenty-two years of broken promises.

the walls of the heart are thin and easily punctured.
if you were a barb, a thorn, a spike,
how easily you could destroy such a pink thumping thing.

when i am losing my way,
when i am losing my head,
you are the path and the story.
you are my narrative, my development and my rugged track
worn down by my circling back around again and again.
when i am losing my way,
you are the prick of a needle in a wall made of cardboard,
the mark it makes,
a tiny irrevocable wound.