beneath the bed
between the sheets
in the camera hidden by the gray mirage of wedding pictures
there
in the cavern of woven leather resting
on the light brown
wooden
floors
I reside in your supple hand
on your inveterate moments
as you remember
our fights
which were so important and silly as the limelight of fame seeps
like acid into our bones
we're artists
all of us who decry with the slates of stone
burning
beyond the worldly noose
constricting
phony smiles
but never mind
anything I say
just make me
listen
as I am trying to listen
to all of what makes you
strange
like bad news
godly
like mystery