Nothing can come between us
other than your nine millimeter
gat, tucked in bed with us, between.
And my mouth from which my
unfiltered throughts flow.
Like no one knows what happens
in a marriage, other than those in it,
except sometimes you can be
the last to know anything.
It's not paranoia if it is founded
and rooted in something and
isn't lying if it's someone's
truth. Pink tip toes to temples,
I am calm at that sight, barely
shrink away from the brush of
cold metal in my bed, our bed.
And it's sad, how I know, someday
You will be gone and I will have to
get rid of this fucking thing somehow.