We are still alike
Oh lover, we are still not much different
You still wiggle your toes
After you remove your socks
Dragging your feet over the skinny carpet threads
We still have so much left in common.
I unpacked everything I owned
Your apartment was dingy.
It was mouldy and cold,
It was everything I ever wanted in a home.
I unpacked suitcases,
I unpacked the expired pills,
And I opened books
That had long since yellowed,
Such that the words had dripped down its edges
And into waiting mouths of hungry, lazy afternoons.
I unpacked the little girl
Lonely lunch hours,
And frighteningly long days
And put her in the highest shelf of your empty closet.
I sieved the reality from the memories I had
Of throwing letters into dustbins
Because anyone who finds it burnt and destroyed
Must think it emerged out of unbearable, special, extraordinary…
Lover, your closet lies too empty.
You have no baggage,
If you only realized your lack of pain after you met me,
How did you talk to your father?
With a sense of knowing a stranger in the arms of a man
Who could not protect you from that filthy neighbor.
Lover, we are still not that different.
You still buy no music,
You still try to find silence in my neck
When we make love.
You still say “Still?”
When I tell you I want to kill myself.
You still carry all your weapons in the farthest drawer,
So that late at night you can convince yourself,
That getting up from the strangle of my arms,
Is not worth having to walk to find cure.