Hipster House

Our relationship was built on rotten foundation. From the moment I sat on his lap, and he asked my name, it began. Through empty words and see-through suitors, across the hall from creaky futons and stairs, up stairs up stairs. To rose petals underneath combat boots. Callused fingertips and out-of-tune Steinways, playing the same 4 chords. Came the floor of secret rendezvous, doors to brick walls caked with the 50 cent cologne of innuendo. Around rehearsed apologies and boulder-weight hearted forgiveness to the right. Past carpeted chins scratching glass-porcelain. I wash the weekend from my bones. And remember the very last time, the top floor: I asked him to love me. He said he was sorry. So he left: an empty tin of chocolate cheesecake and discarded sheets with a chipped figurine wrapped inside.