Wet Paint

It is some great mystery to me that the best sleeps are on the couch at 1am,

no matter how cosy, cotton-wooled, clean-kept your bed sheets sit;

it’s the dusty couch, lights on, television loud, washing sitting in the sink,

tap dripping lullabies.

It is some great mystery to me that the best kisses are the ones you won’t ever have again,

unfinished business,

like wet paint.

And though with marked intensity, the best tears are the ones cried alone,

an iridescent oil slick

stains your face.

The best moments come alive at the most inconvenient of times,

building up like laundry.

And yet they are beautiful.