you will be in your big bed, the windows open,
not as a provocation but as a way for me
to consider out the big out there or jumping out.
a bible next to you, morning doing its best run,
swifts on your satellite cable. it seems to rain
every day here. a stray
idea of love in a bottle of expired cough syrup – all the
material of hanging on you hoard – and I will read
you the song: you will find me unbearable and insincere.
I wake up to the sound of TV,
naked men in my living room,
my brother giving relationship advice
on the morning drive –
the scale of everything changes like in a map,
one that is outworn and folded,
under towels and t-shirts and dried sperm.
we are not going anywhere, you and I.
time has misplaced us.
eating chicken in Bamburi, not thinking of
the night I almost fell of a floating bar.
instead thinking of deep colours
and straw furniture, dirty hotel
towels and how we spent long nights
in the bohemian homes
of rats and middleclass men
in need of ghostwriters – it was easier for us,
letting go of each other to new friends,
smiling across dinner tables
in our own tired language
going back home to watch
each other masturbate,
saluting each other, sailors coming home,
knowing this is what time feels like
when we fit into a scale small enough
for a map a child draws to a home
he will never know.