Forgive me for writing poems about Expansive spaces or empty faces Of fractured pieces Or how I hate Reese’s it is Not that I cannot appreciate Black holes or dead stars I just think I’m already doing Enough of the falling apart Bit of life on my own to be thinking of Galaxies that outlive my existence And so I choose to wind the distance. My dear reader Indulge me as I tell of my Desks and drawers my Bedsheets and mattresses even the Candles and slippers If not to make up for my Sheer curtains and leaky colander Then perhaps to find warmth and tenderness Maybe even love, in the familiar.