It likes me, I think. Lies to honey, maybe.
I've come home to straighten up all the crosswords
File the daily prayers and dust the cupboards
There's only so many ways to be kept
Away, like a pet, from the scene of the crime.
I'm sure it likes me. I feed it silence.
Husks. All the little secrets pulled up,
Dried, and salted. Behind the silk,
Under the tented laundry, tied back
With drape cord. We're dancing today,
Pondering our feet and the floor.
Thump and whisper, spin and stumble.
It keeps close. It likes me.
I absolutely love this Chrissa! I like the way you nailed the way our realities in life are not always black and white but full with greys. Amazing write as always!
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