No Rent In Heaven

can you come over? are you coming over? did you come? are we over? I need space. 750 square feet? that could work. this is working. yes, I work--my income is two times the rent. what do you do? no, like, what it is you do? owning property isn’t a job. my house is your house, and I mean that literally. I'm locked out, will you let me in? you’re so closed off. can you fix that? the oven, I mean, it’s broken. there’s an extra key under the doormat. you can let yourself in. I’ve been thinking about you. you know what they say about living in someone’s head rent free? no, I mean cancel rent. I can’t pay. I’m done paying. I've given everything.

when you called me to say the apartment was ours, I skipped to track 12 on the mix CD in your car. I was driving over the pasadena bridge, listening to ween with the windows down. it was summer, it was almost my birthday. the man on the corner is waving his sign; it seems heavy. I thought he was part of a tenant protest. now he is telling me to go with god. I nod and return home to scrub the floors on my hands and knees.

I empty the cabinets, clean out the bathroom. I need my deposit back. when I’m done the rooms are new again, but older. the space that we’ve loved in, fought in, others have loved in, fought in, others will love in, will fight in, we cooked in, they cried in, will fuck in, we slept in, again. it’s getting late.

a notice with a fee for small holes. I push, and you cave.