my piano and your pencils.

they could sit side by side.
i would have an ashtray on top of the piano that you would sometimes bicker about but sometimes we would drink wine and you would stub out the occasional cigarette yourself and i'd never call you out.
maybe we'd have breakfast, certainly coffee, in the mornings and then i'd be off to work and you would have hours alone to draw yourself out of this town, enough that you'd be okay sticking around. i'd get home and you'd be out.
i'd make dinner.
i would play piano and think. i would read my book that i've been reading for years. you would've watered the plants and finally they'd be coming back to life. i've never been good with plants. your key would hit the lock. the tibetan elephants would jangle to life. the switch on the kettle would be flipped and water would be boiled for tea.
you would tell me where you'd spent the morning, i'd tell you where i'd spent the night. they would accompany each other nicely.
my hand would drift asleep atop your belly.
my heating bill would go down.
the bristles of your toothbrush would sleep quietly next to mine.