where the writers are
new furniture

new furniture

this cold couch pushed against the wall is too young
to know who I am, how many nights I roam
in the abandonment of hallways and time machines
it does not hold you dying, quietly, unto yourself..
it knows nothing of my days of resurrecting love,
the final failures in a rainy night of ambulances.
this table never held our drinks or knew the slam
of anger or hilarity, a place to place pills for dividing
into the hopeful magic that would erase
all those years of bodily abuse.
this lamp never knew your face in its' light, has not shone
on the hopeful or helpless human desires, has not watched
in the small circles of light, spilling beneath it,
how fast eyes can shut, a record with the needle lifted
too abruptly, spinning on and on in silence.