[laughs]

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero, from Fight Club.

My concrete womb became the shrine you built to worship your egotistical God under the gospel of Ikea, the yin-yang coffee table, the personal office unit, the posh green patterned sofa, the dining set delivered to define you as a person.

I was your 15-floor filing cabinet, your storage for broken dreams you couldn't even count as your own, all denied within the hours you spent between wakefulness and slumber, never fully here or there, and I, I loved you like nobody else.

I would have carried your burden until the end.

I inhaled the beginnings of a heartbreak as your perfume was displaced by household items cooked over an open flame, the Freon you sprayed, my holy water, all 1,700 square feet of my being thrown away from the floor to ceiling windows.

From below, you declare how you almost had it all, how the condo was your life.

[laughs]