Thick skin & bare bones
tangled in a set of
worn sheets; an elastic heart
beating to the rhythm of
Sunday morning rain.
You open the curtains &
a soft beam of light shines
through the dirty window.
I put on a pot of coffee &
your favorite record &
we dance;
still drunk on cheap wine
and madness from the
night before.
And maybe this is what
it's supposed to be like;
sitting in the kitchen, eating
banana pancakes with you,
covered in jam and conversation:
vulnerable, bare, awake.
Maybe the world isn't falling apart.
Maybe this is where the magic is.