deep sleep.

I hope you're dreamin’

of stained glass parades.

Shimmer of a sun dial

turning back the shadow.

Two decades oughta do.

Ketchup dripping on the counter top,

don't cry over spilled tomato sauce.

Meatloaf is burnt around the edges,

but you're still smiling.

Kitchen tiles cold on barefeet,

so I sink into being held soft.

Laugh about, the domestic disaster

that is a poet trying to cook.

No one said we'd lose tred

in the days back then.

Grasp to hold on to all the memories

we didn't get to make.