and I can’t remember what day it is.
So I hurry on a wrinkled cardigan I grabbed off the floor (I’ve stopped picking up around here),
and I find you in the middle of the kitchen, with crazy hair and childhood eyes, and
you’re sipping my memories with careful lips.
You see that my face is blotchy, that I look like something from the future, but I don’t mind,
Because my future will have you in it, and we’ll sink together as we listen to
Dvorak and watch Wheel of Fortune, in three of those gliding chairs.