A Love Letter with an Expiration Date

A coffee-stained notebook, three razor blades,
and a hair brush remain on the swivel chair while
the desk is covered in dishes threatening mold at any
moment along with empty cans of seltzer and cheap beer,
a flannel shirt, and a stale loaf of Italian bread

the floor is littered with amateur sociological observations:
bags of notes on the Combahee River Collective,
some dam in Brazil that displaced vulnerable populations,
and every sobering statistic you can find on union decline

unread newspapers blanket the bed, the pillows
are books written by Howard Becker and James Joyce
and Jean Paul Sartre: a half-read Ulysses props up the head
quite well when the dust from the room gives me sinus issues

Morrissey wails and a plush purple cat stares
at the wall with a stitched smile
when suddenly there’s a knock at the door

you set your glasses beside an unwashed
wine glass, pick up my guitar and begin playing,
never uttering a single complaint about
the maze of inventory you had to navigate
to make your way to my neglected instrument.