I wrote a poem for the first time in 11 years.

Orphan Socks a poem in six parts

[k i t c h e n]

Sometimes I describe my brain as a scrambled egg, you have the smallest frying pan.

You talked about running out of bacon, before we even began.

I didn’t feel worthy of an unscrambled breakfast, so I ate my Easy Mac.

You knelt down beside me and said, “But feelings aren’t facts.”

[l i v i n g r o o m]

For a whole year, I didn’t notice the sofa stained blue.

The imperfect couch quiets my brain, there is only Jeopardy and you.

I steal the tiniest of glances, your face dim in the TV light.

Your laugh softens my universe, I know I did one thing right.

[t h e f r o n t y a r d]

Neither of us have an affinity for ice cream, an overrated treat.

Yet we sit on the stoop with something fruity, people-watching from across the street.

The neon parrot is our seasonal neighbor, we know Finn wants to go.

The locals visit Polly’s as a destination, but to us, it’s simply home.

[t h e b a c k y a r d]

Sometimes I stare in wonder, the planet feels too big.

We throw the frisbee to Winnie, again and again and again.

The blue one sails crooked, but green and orange won’t do.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you.

[b e d r o o m]

You said I’ve always known you, we just hadn’t met.

Some type of crunchy soul connection, a bunch of bull shit.

But we stayed awake all night, as if we had always known.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.

[b e d r o o m, p a r t I I]

Your snores are the soundtracks of my nights, I lay restless in your bed.

I somehow miss you when you’re here, I wish you were awake instead.

I try and try with all my might, to turn off my silly brain.

I carefully touch your skin, an antidote for the pain.

When morning comes, we both know I’ll carefully ignore the clock.

We’ll sloppily make the bed, the land of orphan socks.