magnetic_letters tender square he is inside my home. he curls his lengthy legs upon the tiny blue sofa, his right elbow propped against the sofa’s right arm, the same place where i sit every early morning writing to him. i am on the opposite side of the couch; i can’t believe how close he is to me. my beloved grey blanket is draped over him just so. i am a bit chilly and want to share but i’m not sure how forward this is. he’s wearing a grey t-shirt and the shirt has magnetic properties that allow him to mix up different letters to spell out messages. i can’t read what his shirt says, but there’s a pile of letters on the coffee table in front of us. in my bedroom, someone else sleeps. i rise from the couch to check the kitchen. i am wearing hospital scrubs as pants, the kind i used to sport as a teenager that tie at the right hip. the kitchen is messy; there are dirty pots and pans on every burner. worse, i know there’s gas in the air—i must’ve left a flame burning unattended. i check each dial and any open fire is snuffed. returning to the living room, i realize how dark it’s become; i want to see his face. i approach the floor lamp beside him, angling to wash the world in light. when i do this, his hands reach for my hips and he pulls me toward him, directing me to sit in front of his curled body, which now curves around mine. the bow at my hip becomes undone, and i turn my attention to tying it as i settle. i turn to gaze at him and he is so lovely in the warm glow. his hands reach for my face and his lips gently graze mine, telling me everything he can’t say. 211007 ... unhinged the refrigerator in the break room has magnetic poetry words on it; i become unhinged and rearrange them into bite size poems for my coworkers 211007 what's it to you? who go blather from