the dim orange light
creeps over and around
the framed drawing of us,
the one with your blazing red hair
creeping down like vines
to your black t-shirt
as you rest your head
on my shoulder.
i cannot remember
when you did it;
it feels like forever
with my pillow jammed
into the space between
my mattress and the wall,
with my sheets in a heap
on the dusty tiled floor,
with you curled up
on my bed with your hands
covering your face.
i scratch your head
and say in a low whisper
that everything is okay,
that you are okay.
i don't care
what you think
you have done.
i know
that somewhere
deep inside
your chest
is rich soil,
and someday
i will make
my way
to the place
where it hides,
and together
we will work
day and night
to till it,
and we will
scatter seeds
all over it,
and we will
give them
water and sun
for as long
as it takes
until they sprout
and grow into
towering trees
that will bear
enough fat
and glossy fruit
to feed us
both until
the sun
expands into
a red giant
and swallows
up the earth