He sleeps between us – he is the little spoon
and the big spoon all at once.

We wake up covered in peanut shells.
You are allergic to tree nuts, but we never talk
about it. Your throat slowly closes each night a little more,
the way the horizon swallows the sun in small bites.
I, however, gulp things down
like a dehydrated lizard, and You shush me.

The elephant in the room did my taxes for me,
but he did them wrong, and now I owe the IRS.
The elephant asked for the aux cord and then
played three hours of an Enya and Drake mix.
I just kept driving because I thought
it would be awkward to stop, and I don’t
like to interrupt, and, anyway, the elephant
was talking to me and You were asleep
in the passenger seat, so what’s the harm?

The elephant in the room is a trained
concert pianist. We don’t have a piano, but he taps
his nose against the window and our water glasses,
and the picture frames, and it sounds like music,
but an unfamiliar kind I might have known
the words to years ago but forgot: Your
footsteps against our floorboards, Your forehead
resting against mine.

What I mean is, I reach out and suddenly don’t know
if it’s alright to brush the eyelash from
Your cheek, and we both sigh because
we don’t know anything else to say
and the elephant is just watching us
try to fit back together like the buttons
and loose string on Your favorite winter coat.

I don’t know who let the elephant into our home
but he is overstaying his welcome
and doesn’t seem to have plans to leave.
We all know the saying about guests and fish,
well, our house reeks of elephant cage and hay,
and I try to gently hint that the elephant
should look for a hotel, but the elephant
keeps asking for piggy back rides, and stories
of how we met, and I have to admit it feels good
to have someone to say Your name to.

I am midwest polite, and, now, I can’t even breathe
because I’ve let the elephant climb onto my back,
so I give the elephant a blueberry muffin
and a bubble bath with so many salts and soaps.
I give the elephant Your memory foam pillow and rub its back
and let the elephant eat peanuts
from my hand on Your side of the bed.

I realize, now I might need the elephant
more than I need You.

You took a bag.
You left at night.
You took the elephant.

I can’t remember why we taught
the elephant our names, our language,
but it seems he took those too.

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