you’ll come here when i’m not expecting you–
i will be caught with brush and bottle in hand
trying to bleach the stains out from the tile.
we’ll slow-dance in the hallway, right before
you pretend to slit my throat. i won’t let out
a death-cry even then, won’t give you my sound
even though you had hoped and waited for it,
a scream, just a moan, just something to let
you know i was alive. we will rearrange the
furniture so that the couch holds notes of
blue, and the chair will sit in the corner
screaming that we haven’t done it right as
the bleach seeps into our eyes staring out
and our hands crumble like old grout.