me: the bourgeois
karl marx: nice
your side of the room remains neatened dust free; like unsupervised hands, never-still, pulling fine wool through a bucket of pastel tinted water. your sketches remain covered in rings where too-strong coffee or old tea leaked through steamy mugs. it’s clear to me now on these rainy days that the dust and clean pages must be as lonely as I am, without your stains and tidy hands.