henrib

steal the spare key from under the doormat or the key under the shoe rack or the key in the flower vase or the kitchen drawer or my favourite candle-

or steal it right out of my pocket.

(what do you mean why do i have so many house keys? ask this house why it has so many ghosts and why they keep leaving me)

break in at 3 am and make yourself at home

cry in my doorway if you can't make it any further

I'll get out of bed and carry you up. we'll sit on the ground in my tiny dilapidated bath stall, going through the box of shitty half- expired make-up I never bought and try to laugh

or throw stupid fake potted plants out the window onto the rusty pile of baby bikes I never rode if you need to scream and watch something shatter

or we'll just curl up in a tight ball and lay in the ancient tub, turn on the shower and cry and gasp and sob and weep and wail and howl till we're floating in a salt water ocean

who cares if the tile floor's cold. I've got a dozen fluffy bathrobes hooked on the door. we'll build a soft nest to crash on and a fort to protect us. we'll find the old paperbacks I hid in the the laundry basket and read till the suns rises and sets and explodes and fades away

who cares about those stupid lumps of porcelain plastic. they're ugly and I never wanted them. I think I'd rather have you break them than the world break you

who cares if the tub's a little rickety and the water's cold and the boiler's old and loud and slow and we'll get soaked to the bone.