Driftwood

No one tells you
how it will end,
or when you know
you’ve reached
a rock bottom heart,
where I imagine
echo and void dwell
in these badlands,
in these drylands,
a tumbleweed of memory –
your dress socks
rolled into a ball
in some dust bunny corner;
loose change
atop your dresser;
a slamming door
a room away;
a long shower;
another lukewarm meal
in relative silence.
Yet we still cling
to that other
in this darkness;
our driftwood bodies
busy becoming one
in this bed,
in this flood
of our making.