Two Betta tanks swollen, but he owns a fifth Empty, beside the dresser, the other two sit breaking down to lines, curves, Crayola fits. Where my life and his were compact into a bowl, is where the lines threaten, made from the clutter we never sold.
His empty tanks, my clothes too many for the dresser he keeps here, Room for one? Plenty. The lines filch air from my lungs, Water from my glass Until my mind is crowded, cramped, collapsed; He’s here, though reveling in the treasures of his past.
Two fish in one room, two people in one tank “We’ll clean the water tomorrow,” is not a mistake. Without air, without water, how much more can I take? He cares, but he’s busy I care, but I don’t All my mind can think now is, Who has a boat?
There is no fish tank I can see, Not one object I can determine. “There is no place to start,” the lines sign to me, “This room is messy, it’ll eat you, we’re certain.”