The Honeymoon is Over
I.
we are secrets
in blue and orange strapped
venetian blind black spine
and cigarette smoke hickeys on our necks
we are rumors
pretty ones
he plays guitar loudly badly
he’s never heard a blues song
hates Tom Waits and “Desperado”
doesn’t need any help being miserable
thank you
his Catholic god knows we can make a mess of things
all by ourselves
II.
I used to fantasize about houses like this
when you kissed me
clawfoot tubs of hot water in bright white bathrooms
kitchen tile so smooth and uncracked
we fucked on it after the party
and didn’t need to mop first
a hallway we walk down
when you hold one hand
and the wall holds my other
giggling sloppily past doors I’ll never know
the dirty sock truth of
only how fragile the needle on the record player
when you whisper just above it, you have to be gentle
these things have been bounced around a lot
they respond badly to rough hands
III.
when we sleep
I often have dreams of an octopus
a bearded one
with glasses
who loves comic books and punk rock
and me
but every time, something goes wrong
and it suffocates me
wraps its tentacles around my lungs
and squeezes
and I wake up sweaty and confused
wondering how so much space still just isn’t enough
to comfortably keep two tiny sleepy people
