Don't say I never said anything nice about you

The sounds of the city
bleed through the walls,
settling into the room with us.

There are taxi horns freckled
across the kitchen counter,
a "fuck you, you fucking fuck!"
smashed into the fruit bowl,
a rumbling bus engine purring
from beneath the
bathroom sink,
the dull bleat of a
jackhammer
tapping against
the edge of
the couch,
in time with
the fan
of your
fingers.

There is an ugly tango to it all,
a graceless rhythm that
winds me up and makes
my nerves spark like
wires rubbed
too hard.

It takes the solid feel of
your chin tucking into the
depression of my shoulder
to remind me what
quiet feels like.

Some days
you're the only sound that makes sense.