You asked to come in.

You asked to come into my house one day.
A simple thing to ask of me.
I looked at your shoes and the coat on your back.
"You have to take them off or you can leave."
You smiled at me and walked right on in.
Leaving your things by the door.
I poured you a drink and brought things to eat.
You never asked of me, nor spoke many words.
You just sat there taking up space.
Sprawled across my couch, the remote in your hand.
You smell printing like smoke on the floor.
You stayed there for two months.
Two months on my couch.
Noticing nothing about anything anymore.

You didn't hear me beg you to move.
You didn't see me pack up my things.
You didn't realize I wasn't smiling.
And then I was gone.

You asked to come into my house on day.
And now you sit there alone.
Nothing to hear, or ignore or deny.
Nothing is everything you have in your home.

I'm sorry I ever let you into my house.
I'm sorry I let you sit down.
But mainly I'm sorry that I let you come in,
and then left you not a couch, but a floor.