Suede

 
 
You held
so tightly
to that last piece of me.
It was such a heavy
burden to move, but you carried
the load on your back
sometimes with help, sometimes not
yet always believing  
it important enough
to take with you each time
you had to change
course. Are you ever leaving
the past behind?
 
You were always
surprised you could completely
stretch yourself to the limit
somehow managing
to fit your slender six foot frame,  
your head falling
down deeply  
into the soft suede cushions.  
You used to stroke
the suede in one direction
than the next, watching
the colors shift
beneath your fingers
 
You were so happy
when I gave you
that blue couch. You needed
it for that first empty
basement room
you rented after you left
the Corps. I gave you more
furniture to fill the blank
space--
a rickety bed
and fought coldness
with blankets and warmth.
 
You never hung the paintings.
 
You sat them against the couch
saying you couldn't damage
any of the walls
with nail holes
that the owner would disapprove
but you refused
to relinquish
them either, saying one day
you might have a reason
to display the abstract distractions...
 
But there would never be a reason.  
 
But the blue couch remained
constant, peaceful, and comforting
it held us in its overstuffed arms
on rainy nights when there was nothing
on tv and we instead had to entertain
each other which mostly consisted of me
talking and you
being bored.
 
You were at least content
to have a comfortable  
couch but
the bed was unsatisfactory
squeaking every night
every time one of us turned
or shifted our bodies
the heavy humming
of the fan in your face
because you got too sweaty
under the sheets
while you slept. We would lie
there, the mattress sinking
in the center of everything
but you remained silent
throughout the night
 
You were passionate
about thunderstorms. I'd jump
with every lighting strike. You'd laugh
I would retreat
from the bed to the couch
from the couch to my memory
you would try to come after me
but I would not let you
for the longest Time...
 
The couch was too hot to lie
on in summertime, even naked.
sometimes you let me sleep
near the fan when my cheeks
flushed. It was kind.
I was grateful for the air,
you were grateful for my silence
we were both grateful.
The couch stayed the same
but we grew, we kept growing.
The suede shifted from blue to grey.
 
The couch couldn't hold us both anymore.
 
But the couch cradled you still
the bed sank less without me
and the fan would keep
you cool, fresh, alive.
The light bulbs needed replacing
the pictures collected dust
and the wooden drawer began to warp.
My letters stayed safe
in your nightstand, though you lost
The one I wrote about hope. But you kept
the broken star key chain
I made you at college. You held the glass
In your hand
even though the shooting star
was shattering
 
After not even seeing
each other for a year
what possessed
me to ask about that stupid
couch out of all the pointless
inquiries
is something I will never understand.
 
At least you agreed  
That the couch was comfortable
a space for cuddling, sleeping,
fighting—
yet a gift you said you would never
surrender.
 
There were many nights I moved
to the couch, and in the moonlight
I stroked the suede from blue to grey.
But I could never get it to change
back. I tried.  
 
You see the couch would never really change.  

 
We steered those last few conversations away
from any damaging truths
we kept it to the formalities:
work, school, weather.
We spoke about him maybe once.
But it was always understood
why we kept reality silent
until the only thing left
to talk about was that. Maybe
 
I could have asked if you discarded
those ugly lamps, or if the bulbs had extinguished
or simply have reminded you to polish
the dingy drawer. To read
or trash my letters
I’m not sure.
I could have asked if you bought
A new bed. Maybe not.
 
Bedroom talk was too dangerous.
 
I desperately
wanted to ask if you finally hung
the paintings. If the art meant anything.
If any of it did.
But I already knew the answer.
You kept the couch locked
in storage away
from mundane pain
 
I wonder if memory turned the couch grey.
I wonder if there's still stains in the suede.