You were supposed to be the window I’d climb through to let myself in. The arms of the couch to hold me tight. Now the window’s shut and the “just right“ bear is sitting there.
You were supposed to be the calm bay, the safe harbor but you’re the storm and I’m not dressed for this.
Did you know your bangs are crooked and I could help you with that?
And did you know my heart filled that old shirt you begged off me before I left? Do you still clutch it when you sleep? And is it as empty as it looks?