If Our Love Were An Estate Sale

if our love were an estate sale
canyons would form in the foreheads of collectors
their perplexed expressions
would interrogate each of our rooms
each doorway would welcome
with peppermints and tangented buttons
to everyone else: discs of meaninglessness
relatives would try to make sense of us
find postcards we never got around to sending
from places we always travelled alone together
breathless hikes through every color imaginable
horizontal flight in a field without a name
(surely, along with my body,
they have named each other)
the dragon-footed bathtub would be broken and filled
with charcoal remnants of a thousand journals
each one as a star blinking out of time
the furniture men would search with rumors
of a historic bed and a globed couch
they would sulk furiously empty
confused by the rubbish and tatters they found
we don't take pictures of tuesday cuddles
or thursday morning love notes
& I'll never get around to making a mix tape
of the sound of the storm
as it collides with your chest song
it won't matter...
in the slow hour of our love,
we will have laced hands everywhere
kept trinkets only to smash them with 9-irons
the only antique would be
the cardboard cut out of my life
before you walked in
if our love were an estate sale
there wouldn't be anything left to find
we would have lived it all away