the mess on the couch

isn't funny
or the funny faces.
isn't the sleeping cats
or sleeping.
it isn't the thoughts
on top of thoughts
on top of me.
isn't the graceland rocks
that hung on posters
in her all pink room
with the floor
you stepped on
and it felt like
you could fall right through.

it isn't all the little bits of trash
that will someday
play connect the dots
and make up the map
of everything
that has ever fallen between the sheets
in the places
you and i both know
cannot be reached.

isn't a joke
or joking.
isn't the water
in more than one glass
or the piles of soaked dvds.
it isn't the stacks
on top of stacks
of notebooks
on top of me.
isn't the 1950's face
that hung on posters
in her all pink room
with the floor
you stepped on
and it felt like
you could fall right through.

it isn't all the trash
that i have still left
uncleaned,
or all the pretty green things
that have gone unwrapped
falling in between the seats
in the places
that you and i both know
cannot be reached

---


the mess on the couch

---

is me.