there’s no such thing as a perfectplace.
no hardwood floor without that one exposed nail head
no bookshelf full of novels that evoke only layered laughter
no pantry stocked with just peanut butter pistachios and chili chocolate
yet i wait for that place
socks on hammer in hand
a few unlikely library books on hold
sun dried apricots and fresh ambrosia apples.
i make this place happen
by writing here
this is my fuckingplace.
what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as