sometimes, everything is. and is-not. at once. and the stain on the couch that we left from the last time. remains. where i sleep and hold your shirt against my face like undisclosed secrets about in-comings and other things that beg for permanent tissues for tired eyes. the mark is. and i am. and when the rain falls or doesn't. or when i hear your key in the lock when the world goes dark and i've forgotten to cook or eat and breathing forgets itself because of the word respiration. the world isn't covered in tattoos hidden behind clothes we tell stories about at bars that smell like urine and pesticide until we really believe in what we say. and the world is. and isn't. because then we are. and i start combing my hair. again. mornings. and writing underground notes like letters to jesus. to get in-between. the point is the stain. no the point is the remains. that it remains. to stay.