Nahian Jamal Joyeeta
We share a bed and a window:
The countertop and sink too.
Some days we fight over the spatula,
On others, we spoon on the sofa.
The lipstick stains on your shirt aren’t often mine,
But you know I usually don’t mind.
The nights that you come home close to dawn,
I smell the Chanel and Dior on you, the whiskey wafts off your yawn.
I hold you close still
’cause I got nowhere to go:
I am too used to the comfort
of the “home” that you let me borrow.
We share the TV screen but never the remote;
You don’t play my songs when we’re down on the road.
I sit there with you in the photo frame, but the lock screen belongs to another,
When asked, “Who’s calling you,” you say, “Just my domestic lover.”
With our domestic love we plant flowers, buy furniture and paint the walls,
Our domestic love follows us in echoes through the bathroom, kitchen and halls.
Domestic love, domestic love,
That’s all that we are-
Your towels still hang beside mine, because
“Old habits die hard.”