Goodbye pink couch.

I didn’t really say that as the removalists kicked off the last of your legs

and dumped you by the side of the road.

I guess that’s because you’re a couch,

and can’t speak,

or use language at all.

You don’t fit in here in this white-walled

timber-floored

down-lit

inner-west two-bedroom apartment,

across from the railway station.

In some ways I wish you did.

You were comfortable

through those two heartbreaks year on year,

your plush velvet salmon self cradling me

and my lovers

as we cried and kissed and slept.

Cradled all the cats

and take away

and all the throw cushions.

You were mine for a while

and I could have treated you better,

Not discarded you so quickly.

But then, it wasn’t quick.

It was time.

Goodbye pink couch.

You were my silent couch friend.

And I hope you’re living someplace nice now,

looking after someone else’s heart.