success

I want to fill a library
with books of poems
that I find at artsy bookstores
in the city.

I want to burn candles
and hang string lights
and watch a brown short-haired cat play with yarn in the corner

I want a fireplace
and a baby Grand
and Gershwin records
and a mantle with a big picture frame in the middle

But I look closer, the frame is a mirror
and I'm staring at an empty house with lots of books and records and string lights and candles and an apathetic fucking cat...

What is success when there's no one to share it with?
what is a love poem when there's no one to read it to?
it's just success, and a poem, and a Gershwin record played alone,
and a slow dance with the empty, "1234, 1234..."

In an alternate reality
there is no baby grand
or collection of Dickinson
but I cry when I read you my poems
and you wrap me up in your arms
and wipe away my tears