A new apartment

The furniture wanders the living room, confused, lost. It's a new apartment. Years, even centuries after the fire, the one that came to take the apartment away the morning after we wondered if it was the only thing keeping us together.

Now we have another one. All day the wet paint sings to the lost furniture. Tonight, the blinds are open to the thin stars, the last unpainted wall, your sleeping back to me in the middle of the wide bed. The paint in the bucket is mumbling now a lullabye, sometimes another sort of goodbye.