sipping tea i realize
I’m not sure who these bartstools belong to..
they’ve just been here for as long as I have.
they’re some sort of maple cherry wood.
but I prefer them as shelves.
the truth is this entire house is a storage room.
the dejected nature is stacked high though no flowers have bloomed in years.
the ivory folded swans are bowing, crumpled over with dust.
the correspondence in the corner, towers over thoughts
I meant to burn it all to the ground
and i think it knew
so it suffocated me with angst.