IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S THE HOUSE
I think of doors that slam harder when someone leaves the house
for the last time, of corners in rooms that are actually armpits and
spread anxious sweat, leakages. There is no uneasy atmosphere,
it is the windows that tremble when someone leaves.
Such as sadness is comparable to putting out the garbage
you see no one doing it and still, on Monday morning it is out there on the street,
some things you only do alone in bed when the night becomes a sail
from which stars tumble, falling on the roof like firecrackers.
In the distance two factories stand together smoking -
when the door slammed shut behind you, I hung out of the window,
there they were, safe under the awning of some grey clouds
and I called after you while they lit another cigarette, spoke about us
smokers put themselves eternally in the mist, so that they’re always looking to the other
and I shouted at you, causing the wallpaper to tear itself loose from the walls
because we will call even if they cut through the lines like umbilical cords
send letters with perfume and ink spots as contradictions
to conceal that we might just love each other too much
throw messages in bottles filled with thoughts and concerns to keep
our heads above water. Put the house on a postcard.