Sofa

It has to be a sofa,

no guestrooms or blow up mattresses,

and preferably canvas

with lots of cushions and a throw

that can easily turn into a blanket

for those 3am nights.

It also need stains—

chocolate pressed by a lover’s body,

blood from an embarrassed friend,

biriyani from a drunken hookup;

a loved furniture, if you may.

I want to add my own stain onto your sofa,

maybe wine, or the tears

that inevitably run

for our first hello’s, and our last goodbye’s.

I want to leave something there, permanent,

as if to say I’m sorry for being absent, sorry

for missing the nights you had to fall

asleep on your own on this sofa covering it in

solitary sweat and tears,

when I should have been there

as a reason, a reminder

that you have a bed to sleep on, to love on.

It has to be a sofa,

something about the way it allows me to sink in

with just enough resistance lets me know

I am loved.