Comfort in Failure

New soap in the bathroom smells nothing like you.

But the old pump was stuck. What else could I do?

I ordered a bookshelf you wouldn’t have bought.

It seemed a betrayal, essential or not.

I eat microwaved meals, ignoring your fears.

A fridge lacking tofu holds Red Bulls and beers.

Dishes pile in the sink; the floors go unswept.

Our rooms brim with bauble you wouldn’t have kept.

Your car sat so long that its battery died.

Can’t keep everything running, Lord knows I’ve tried.

But there’s comfort in failure, if only in part,

To see how our home heals as slow as my heart.

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