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you're filling the room somehow
as you're rolling that giant tongue
you brandish as a gun
a wet finger and a crooked thumb

we're tilting the wooden bed frame
so no two corners sit quite the same
and the floorboards retain the scars

of the cigarettes once discarded
and the lovers' bodies
serving as stepping stones
to the houses you call your own
i'm filling a small chipped tea cup
and giving the fine string a tug
you press into my back
a thigh sits level with my neck

now the ceiling is warped and cracked
bed is splinters and some thumbtacks
and i've hardly cause to call
when your foot is in the door

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