The kitchen table resembled her,
sticky to the touch, old and cracked
with men always
You were ice to her, a clean slate,
someone she could create a cocoon with and emerge
a new being, a new
You saw her as a mess, too.
Her long, stringy black hair pooling
over your tanned chest.
When she moved too quickly, it would
whip around without caution, hardened oil
burning to the touch.
Stacked dishes mocked the two persons,
showing gravity was just a theory
and you were just in her
head. But she loved you regardless
how well you could creep into her skin,
like a mermaid pulling
on a new persona, able to slip
out of the dark