The person we are.

in the backround

a tip trat tap in the empty bathroom

echoing

against the wood we haven’t managed to take down yet.

your hands shiver against the door

and you return, crumbling your way up

the stairs, around the corner

falling into our bed.

Your breath bangs heavy you

aren’t the young boy I knew

those 10 or so years ago

in your dingy longjohns and

tshirts, your gauntness

your greatness in my sheltered eyes.

The weight shifts, a hand reaches to mine

the pressure, the pressure of years

of days and weeks and minutes

the time we’ve put together

the person we are.