I should be with you, or
I shouldn’t be with you at all.

I’m waiting here
like the last few chips in the bag—
eat me or toss me
with the rest of the rot and rags;
‘cause I may have little to give
but I’m still me,
and I deserve to smell lavender
floating
from the heap of clean clothes
in the middle of the room.
I deserve to lie next to you on the couch,
wedged between you and the cushions
while you try not to fall, and while I fool myself
into thinking I can keep you
from
           falling:
it is,
the most wonderful struggle of all.
And I deserve to struggle with you—
not alone
sleeping on a mattress
that shakes more than my heart.
I should by lying on firm foam,
dreaming
of seeing you the next morning.
I should be with you.
If not,
I should be put to the side
to try and find
home,
again.