Furnishings
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.