Drunk and swaying at the kitchen sink,
surrounded by cheap stained glass
and discount appliances,
he can text a woman from his past
while asking me for painkillers,
because there’s not even a wilting flower
in the room to make him think
we have anything less
than forever to recover ourselves,
and I can give him the pills, tuck him
into bed and stay up all night hating
myself for it, because
the living room light can glow now matter
how dark the sky outside.
