The Honeymoon is Over


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


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


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

One thought on “The Honeymoon is Over

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