the ex-fashion editor
requesting
a bespoke piece
and you
spending the night
after a terrible fight
(my fault)
the dishes are waiting
nothing is in its place
clothes on the floor
blanket
pillow
feathers
studs and pearls
on the floor
my ball of yarn
from India
nothin' to do with you
makes me think
of a tiny you
(you said
as a kid
all round things
made you
want to kick it around,
soccer nation)
my hair
is the musky scent
of your chest
my pillows
like
we've been
rolling around on them
throughout the night
the sheets
a mess
you, me, me, you
pins and needles
my tiny house
is my studio
my desk
the bed
an extension of
my desk
woke up
coughing
(suffocating?)
under your arm
pressed tight against
your body
coughing up
fur fabric
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