my stuff on your nightstand: a mess

I lost the whole world  
somewhere in your shotgun house.  
 
I can imagine it  
next to my glasses.  
Next to the necklace you gave me.  
Freedom - honest evidence of trust  
in your minty eyes -  
your belief in me! - it keeps  
making me forget my things; I  
am too proud of loving you  
as strong as you deserve  
to remember any  
thing at all.  
And so falls  
 
another sunset - down  
on my whole world, there  
on your side table. Yeah.  
Turning.  
Oceans and mountains to color  
your strange, 3 PM mornings  
if you want color,  
that is.  
Skies for  
whenever you feel like looking up.  
Why now? - it's just  
 
when I growled into your bottom lip  
“I adore you, yknow,”  
and your throat  
right away  
rumbled with mine,  
I never was more certain.  
Even if the only light in your room  
besides me  
has to seep through blackout curtains.  
 
It was something I was keeping  
for more than a few hours after telling you I loved you,  
but there are the rivers,  
the love-fumbling, my clumsy, young practice -  
my days, nights, my axis.  
I was saving it.  
But damnit, you sublime man,  
I couldn’t help but crack you that dawn,  
your personal nightstand-sunrise,  
ready as eggs and sausage and a side of toast  
when you turn the lamp on.  
 
Loving you -  
so much of me  
has calmed.  
With only the moment I'm in  
under my feet, then, I think  
 
I lost the whole world  
somewhere in your shotgun house.  
We must be duds,  
love,  
because it hardly ever sees us out.