Canned feelings

Our house is dark. I can’t see you but I feel you next to me and I tell you with my heart in my throat that I like looking at you. You say the same thing. It’s like the lights are on again and a waterfall is tumbling over us.

“Hold my hand and we’re half wayyy there—-

You whisper in a gravely, stoic voice, and I feel so safe in a house full of hellish nightmares.

“There’s a place for us,” you kiss my face. “Somewhere, someday.”

I smell a rotting, smoking can, full of guts.

Full of us.