The Hexacoto

These nights,
where we had always slept
turned away from each other,
averse to each other’s excessive heat,
we turn towards each other,
afraid that the next morning
you would not turn any more,

until one or both of us fall asleep
and then, inevitably, we
turn away from each other,
averse to each other’s excessive heat,
as we had always done.

And then the broken light was fixed
that leaky tap tightened
the closet door with the wobbly hinge
all tightened
a shelf you had said for months you were going to install
now proudly stands, affixed to the wall,
bearing loads
like your shoulders

that flex with strength
as you hammer nails into wood,
emptying your strength into that
bookshelf you were building
before you are emptied of strength.

But I would rather the lights stay broken
taps leaky
closet door wobbly
wooden planks leaning against the walls of the shed
collecting dust
that build up
each
day
that you ignore them
that could have gone on indefinitely.

“You’re useless at being handy,”

“You’re useless at being tactful,”

“Who has time for pleasantries?”

“We have all the time in the world,”

“You have all the time in the world.”

“That’s a lot of time to have, in the world.”

“My world is a lot smaller than yours.”

“But your world is mine. You’re in my world.”

“That’s why mine fits in yours.”