(To Bridgett)

“You are my everything,” I whisper.

“I’m not your chair,” she laughs.

But where else would I sit
when I can no longer stand?

My chair, my table covered
with food and a half-burnt candle;

my bed, my pillow holding up
the heavy freight of dreams;

my closet filled with costumes,
my dresser of bundled socks,
my basement of musty smells
and unhealthy seeping waters.

You are my lamp, the saucer
beneath my evening tea, the mirror
at the end of the hall.

Such ordinary furnishings
one might mistake the place
for being empty, when
all I have is what you are.

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