In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Tight Corner.”
– For Forte
I told you I was moving out one-hundred times,
I watched as you tossed breakable things on my carpet
expecting them to bounce.
In return, I flung heavy words and watched as they hit you between the eyes.
But we would always coalesce.
Your line drawn in the sand
would always be erased by my mother
and we would retreat to our separate corners
Evening came and morning followed
we were fresh and bright
like sun-dried blankets
in the beginning.
But soon my towels would still be damp,
wrinkled and mildewed in the afternoon air,
which was more humid and sticky
than you thought.
I told you I would move out
where the humidity and heavy handed horrors
could dry out properly
where we could eat our words
and erase the line in the sand
You watched me flit,
you flattered mongrel,
you flitty, hidden, hopeful