show us the table

I think about how I played you, taking the past and taking forever and making a song, and you are the strings that swell in the background but carry it forward, I think about when it was wrong to wait for a chorus just to hear us all over again, going at it in the kitchen with our hearts in each corner our tears in the sink it’s now a flower cut back for the winter we put on our mittens and the popcorn ceiling is snowing you told me you’re growing and it needs to be right this time around ~

time is a ring we step out of, slowly but surely, it’s too big for my finger and the linoleum holds us as if we are the main course, as if it had arms to show us the table, to eat our damn dinner which by now is as cold as the tunnel I shout at you through though the wind whips too loud if losing makes you the winner then failing is a forgetting that only love can remember so there goes the kettle singing our hook and we’re brought round to finish the lines left yet to write but they’re in your mouth and mine which are busy with supper, with swallowing your eyes which show me the table where we sit side by side, where the song never ends, where it takes us inside ~