So

Self expressed for easy living,
you raise the stakes
and leave them here
in the kitchen
underneath the blackened toast.
I'll swear when I find it there
when cleaning
as I don't like dirty
surfaces
and put it in the black bin liner
with ashtray stubs and smashed glasses.
House parties never dull the
beauty of a bet, especially not the bet
we made
upon my heart and soul
though I wished it was all
strategy.
We're pathetic,
foolish souls,
you live freely while I try
carefully not to tread
on your toes
and your bones
that crack at every touch.
I can't see the picket fence,
the three boys I would have,
the wedding in a forest of patchwork and fairy lights
but sometimes, sometimes it's refreshing
to know your stakes and my OCD
make a completely compatible match
only when the
rose tinted glasses are smashed
somewhere at the bottom of a black bin liner
beneath the ashtray stubs and burnt toast.