erbacce-press

Fin

Crushion
Stoven
Juggle
Juicen
Matted
Tdried

Crushed cushions on empty Fridays
stealing thoughts of you as tagliatelle tangles
on the stove, jug of dreg-ends downed in
juice-drip texts sent after
doormat stomps of domestic frustration,
tats of hair in the tumble-dryer,
settle down
repeat it now –
tried.

It was a something of a nothing, and
I tucked you in the edges
of the sheets
and the sandwiches
and took on traits
to titillate
you best –
failed.

You, a place I tried to access
are without regret, thinking me
not anything, temporary
here I was confused.

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