Poverty

The throw rug was gone. And the floor stared up at me with malice. The apples bobbed for had been eaten. As eden looked on in disbelief. Children wearing their parents skins.

It was soft. As tender as the last time we touched. And it was hard. As hard as the last time. We made love.

There's no place left to walk.

No floor. No walls. Just knives scraping plates waiting to be washed. Just like we live our lives. Leaving the dirty dishes in the sink.

And then complaining when they're so difficult to clean.

I suppose I could've tried harder to extract destinations from all these journeys. But I could never see us going anywhere.

So full of many feasts that always left me hungrier than when I'd begun.

It's a profound poverty. Learning not to.

Expect any better.