late stage

As we continue into the late stages of a few things, here’s a poem for you.

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The season of rot

But we just smell like each other 

Maybe because I use your shampoo

Short letters, broken yolks

Love is a bath and we keep turning the faucet 

until the hot runs out

Maybe it won’t

Maybe I’ll carry chimes down the aisle

checks to the bank

Big tomatos to the crowded table

blood, sweat, anger

burns off to affection

And if time is going to kill it 

no rush 

I’ll wait until you get home