I have often yelled at your callous treatment of it
You have wandered off into the woods, to paint
After painting one at my walls
I could use the turpentine and varnish you have stored below
And maybe use some of your colours to breathe life back
To the beaten surface, how much I miss its sheen,
All it looks like is a marred memory of you without
What else would I do on a Sunday, I could ask
Than to mend all of these random anachronisms
I neither have no will, nor want, to discard
The reticent desire of wanting to hear you call my name
This table has known my name, often in your muffled voices
I could cast your teeth in plaster, from its edges
I want to also treasure those claw marks under
To remind me of times, of lust and love, of burning and consuming
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