if the floor could swallow me up, you'd find me in the cold caress of ceramic

Why is it that you only ever look at me when we’re sitting down on the bathroom floor

Engaged in a ritualistic binding of the slits on my arms

Why is it only then

In the comfort of crimson stained tile

That you allow yourself to fully be mine

Why is it that we can only ever talk

Sitting down on the bed

Looking out the ever expanding tapestry of 500 count Egyptian threaded sheets

And fully gaze into each other’s eyes

Ignoring the knot in the closet

That despite my rusty Boy Scout knowledge

Would have still held my weight

Why is it that when you’re gone

I’ll return to the comfort of those tiles

And as you look down from heaven

And connect with my upturned eyes

Why is it that my arms continue to paint over the masterpieces we made together

That when I swirl my finger through the paint and over the dozen times washed canvas

Why is it that I swear I can feel your tears coming down from heaven and washing off our canvas like you had done some many times before?

Why is it that when I enter the closet

It is only then I can hear your voice

A shining light telling me to leave the tie alone

And lie down in those same 500 threads that seemed to spark the only conversation I cared about

And when you told me you were here

When you told me that my burden was not just mine to bear

When you told me that you would carry my cross

I believed you

And as I walk into that closet

I still believe you

As I fumble over knots that would make boys scoff

I still trust you

And as I look up towards you

And say my last words

I’m finally home