I was surprised at first,
and frustrated, at how narrow
you are. Long and narrow. Stark white,
and so narrow. I felt cheated at the rent
I would pay to sleep in you, and what else?
Hang out? Read? Not likely…
Except that one adapts, and I brought
in to you a vintage brass bed,
turned it this way and that,
settled it under the window where the moon
can wink at me. And then a solid wood
dresser made in Tennessee, found on craiglist
in the Bronx, with a vanity mirror to match.
My bed seems far away when I’m at your door.
I hoped the white walls and mirror would throw
around the illusion of space. I hammered nails
and drilled screws to make you mine.
I’ve filled you to the brim with clothes,
jewelry and bins to nonchalantly store
my stuff. I get mad at you for not being
bigger, and then I humbly bail you out
like a boat set to capsize. Sorry.
You are my space, all mine. You are where the rain
sings me to sleep. You house my art. You carry
my tears, my songs, my stacks of journals,
my longings and night time scribblings, and of course,
my dreams, you are where I dream. I promise to
spend more time with you. Love you, E