And the kitchen sink...

When i am an old man, and far from here,

The gentle tide of my living will crest

A crashing wave in my memory where

The softness of my sunken breast

Will see my memories ashore again in you,

Washed up against this black leather island.

We lie, entwined like so much a braid

Of legs and books and breath, in repose

On the sprung sand castle couch we've made

Here we watch the world we chose

To leave behind in a thrashing surf of yes and no

A dinner, date, movie and kiss ago.

This tide of worried life and expectant faces

A salted sea with blood in mixed to the soil of places

We've set down roots to grow together, here and there

But this squall of stuff-er-ing follows everywhere.

So here we've found an island home,

Black and sticky in October sweat;

A place to park after a day to roam,

To suction to in our post day heat.

An old man remembers these moments, i'd think

When he's far away from the places he knows

Caught up in the lives of the places he goes

And reliving love, and life, and the kitchen sink.

a rough compiling of two images i found compelling (the old man and the black leather couch as an island.) they probably belong in different pieces but whatever; i'm tired and i had to get 'em outta this skull 'o mine.