Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
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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