I am yours

​

I am yours
whether you want to keep me,
ignore me,
walk past me like some flyer stapled to a broken pole
or sit down and co-create a little voltage
in this blackout of a world.

don’t get it twisted--
I’m not here with roses,
I’m here with scar tissue and half-clean glasses,
with all the wrong words
for all the right nights.

I am yours
when you leave my messages unread
like stray dogs outside a liquor store,
when you laugh at other people’s jokes
and give me the weather report.

I am yours
when you drag my name through your doubt
like a cigarette on the curb,
when you tell your friends
“it’s nothing, really”
but your eyes say
“it’s everything and it’s too much.”

I am yours
when you slam the door,
when you pretend you didn’t see me
and then drink just enough
to see me everywhere.

I’ll still be here:
the stool nobody chooses
but everybody leans on
when their legs start to shake.

I won’t promise you heaven--
I’ve been kicked out of better places.
I can offer you this instead:
a chair at my crooked table,
a hand that isn’t always steady
but shows up anyway,
a mouth that fucks up the sentiment
but never the intention.

​

I am yours
in the loud, ugly mornings,
in the quiet murders of routine,
when love feels like repurposing blackening bananas
and turning them into muffins.

keep me,
lose me,
ghost me,
curse me,
call me at 2 a.m.
or never again--
I’ll still be the same stubborn flame
in the corner of your memory,

saying:
here I am,
burning anyway,
whether you cup your hands around me
or walk away
into that good, dull night.

​

© Sreedhari Desai