Chained and heavy books
Are thrust onto my lap,
Break my breakfast table
And rip the laced cloth.
Later while my memory is elsewhere.
My neck is grazed by painted fingernails.
Hidden in the artistís doorway,
We share tales of pain
And move closer,
Your toes are stirring the welcome mat.
Dimly lit by an old art-deco bulb
You are like that cover,
Pure white and torn.