Imperfect

So we are all moved out now. Still moving in. We have one mocha-colored couch, one lovely 52'' TV, one squishy queen-sized bed, one neato leather coffee table. We have bought but have not yet had delivered one paisley chair with ottoman and one mocha matching (yes, thou reviled "matching") loveseat.
The home we are moving into is not perfect. It is a third floor apartment in an older development in the historic section of town. The walls are, as with every apartment I've even lived in, institutional grade white. There have been roach sightings. I am not 100% comfortable walking my dog about. It is imperfect. Above all else, I wish it were a house - no matter how small or old. Something that would be truly home, maybe even with a little postage stamp of a yard for Shelby. But with the boyfriend sans job right now and me ten years into a job I've never been in love with, a house seems a fever dream right now.

Love poem 2

Sleeplessly I watch over
the spring night—
but no amount of guarding
is enough to make it stay.
-Izumi Shikibu

Love poem

Come quickly—as soon as
these blossoms open,
they fall.
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.
- Izumi Shikibu