Recently, I’ve started making rooms.
Small, medium, large, it’s same as the coffee you order
on your way to a job your mother loves more than you.

 

I moved the furniture of myself
so grief could grow limbs in every direction.

It did. It’s sixteen inches taller than me now.

I’ve to duck when I return home.

 

Last week, I sealed the can of love.

Two nights later, it expired.

Jesus Christ, I’m so full of it.

Embarrassingly full.

Like our living room was after the party,

when everyone left and their absences took
more space than they every did.