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.