of course we'll try our best
but it hasn't mattered less
since you wished your hair was red,
and i wished that i could still
fit underneath the bed.

something in your blood,
or in the way you bleed.
something in your love,
or in the way you leave. 

there are significant tales here,
with fingers dipped in ink
and a cause for you to think
those things we lack,
the time, the space, the reason not to sleep
on through a third day straight.
we'll hear it on the phone,
we'll read it on a wall,
and the music we would play
(if only we could)
would fix it all.

the pepper-flecked hair,
the tiny smoky teeth,
the tracing-paper eyes,
and the filth underneath.

(or the time we disagreed about whether the window would stay open in the winter)

time will never be the problem now
as leaves and hair and remembered things begin to curl,
and your love -
not as brave as it ought,
nor as utter as you thought,
long since seeped into the wax-stained walls..
and the carpet under carpet
there for fear of giving those beneath
something to talk about.