You can stay with me
for a night or two
before you move to the other place
where it doesn’t matter if your eyes are closed or you hands are cold.
Does the darkness shine like the Sun, to you?
Is it bright, in it’s own somber way?
I used to wonder about that after I turned the key and walked away from
my tenants in those quiet new homes of wood and stone and marble.
You can stay with me, here
until it’s time for you to go.
Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I talk about my herb garden and my cat
I wear bright color and sometimes I wear perfume that smells like Cotton Candy.
I think we’d both like to remember
what it’s like to be alive.