no chore
the mess you left me yesterday
is in my way.
the cold floor slaps sleep-tender feet
I'm up, for if we eat
is mine to say.
when I shake you awake, I pray
the day we face will end
with me held in your arms again.
today's mess may be mine. I mean,
only the dead are clean.
life gives the soul indignant needs:
eat, shit. drink, bleed.
this mess does prove
we live - entangled, as we move
in sheets and fates. no chore,
but love, to smooth them out once more.
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