Drinking gin, eating painkillers.

Things have a way of either flourishing or festering.
Your whole being is an empty house in need of furnishing.
A chandelier there.
Down the hall a dog asleep on the floor.
We will scuff the wood (there is no doubt)
With our conversations or lack of conversations.
With our politeness
Our drunkenness.
Our modified reproductions of adulthood.
A woman and a man and a couch to face the window.
We will ask each other if we need anything
We will mean it in terms of things that accompany soup:
Breads, crackers,
Spoons made out of plastic to reiterate, in the physical, just how ephemeral our hands are when they are levitating above or around one another’s skin.
Too much time (or not enough) spent
Staring out at darkened streetscapes saying:
love is not the absence of hatred
And you:
Little lady
Nothing moves in slow-motion. There are no sprinkles here.
And on days when there is glowing physical proof
You will ask me to rate my pain
Numerically.
(laughter: perhaps integers are the only real thing.)
(perhaps we can agree on the value of a number)

turning from that streetscape:
Between what and what.