It’s not something I discuss in public, but
I’m in a relationship with my flat.
The neighbors badmouth us because we don’t care how we look,
we put out the trash whenever we want, and
we’re constantly collecting
things that are broken.
I know she needs a new coat of paint.
—Her roots are showing—
That sometimes she dons old-fashioned clothes,
that I could do things that would make her look better.
Yet together we reminisce
about certain visitors in silence,
and she shows me each
threshold where I stumbled.
In our intimacy, there’s always one airless room.
We guard the secret of that dirty corner,
we keep forgotten toys,
and there’s one drawer we’ll never, ever open.
She knows everything about me, my flat.
We play with silly things that
don’t belong elsewhere anymore.
Once in a while we pleasure each other.
Sometimes her love is harsh: over the years I’ve learned that
central heating would numb me to the dangers of
creature comforts.
Stubborn little thing! Are you implying that loving you
means I’ll never have a moment’s rest?
Like any other couple, we thrive together.
The elevator is so new it sometimes blinds me,
sometimes shutting as I enter, just so I don’t
forget those years of exertion.
I know she loves me, too:
that when I lose patience and choose to descend the stairs
an automatic door opens
to remind me gravity isn’t
always on our side.
She knows more about my body than anyone.
She, too, takes me in her arms when I’m lost,
I have whimpered each one of my fears at her breast.
For her, I gave everything I once had.
She married all my faults,
and I made her a home.