Yours, Tumbleweed.

Well, aren't you a bit of marvelous or two? I'd like to live under the hump of your nose. I'd live good. From the thoughts you don't need no more, I'd boil myself soups. The empties and the waste, I'd carry downhill for miles, not to stink up your moustache.

In long summer afternoons, I'd hike down to the folds of your neck and count the times you were almost hanged. But weren't. Sometimes, I've noticed you notice me counting on my fingers, forcing me to pretend to be digging out dirt from under stubborn fingernails. I'd rather you thought I was disgusting than crazy about you. Makes it troublesome stretching out my legs or plucking my feathers every night, so you don't hear me break away. Or want. I've torn the tickets on the eve of, countless nights.

But there, I would have no more problems, though I fear living enough under your bellows, I might grow into a hunchback. I would try to make space by tearing out little bits of cartilage so I might stretch my neck. I might even take up yoga, but then you'd sneeze, causing me to tumble out and wring my neck on your unkempt beard. In other words, I'd best count my steps and take off my heels.

Don't think I'd be expecting free board. I've thought about it with pen and paper, the ways in which I could be of more use to you as a thimble-mouse.
I could plug out offensive smells when you walk into public toilets and can't contain yourself.
I would rap on the wall when the dishes in the sink mount, so that you're not living in squalor.
I could take a walk down the slope of your dear face and come sit inside your ear when the power goes out, singing songs we used to listen to as children so that you don't get bored or frightened.
I would not offer to pluck out your nose hairs for already, I plan to use them like lianas and proclaim myself Mowgli. Forgetting gradually, the scent of fresh-cut hillgrass under egidy of another enfant terrible. We're all expected to hang our heads on something.
When we go abroad, I could make sure your nose looks a bit crooked like it does in your passport picture.
I could keep my ear to the ground to better help you sniff out lies. I could be many things, not just a golem who hankers down and hugs its knees frightened by the rumbling earthquakes of your orgasms.

I thought I'd leave a brief note so you don't become too worried about what's happened to me. When you try to ring, you'll find my Nokia in the top drawer of the cupboard. I forgot to switch it from silent. I'm sorry, it wouldn't have fit. You'll cry, and you'll spit, which is why, for the first week, I plan to set up camp down in the jungle by your left nipple. When you've wreaked your havoc, I will begin to make my ascent, and within another week, I hope to be installed up in my new digs. You'll wonder and look for me often. Then, progressively, less. And think of me, long after your heart has mended, when there's a tickle inside your nose and you're about to sneeze.

And I, riding down a yellow-bellied, forget-me-not aschoo, will be thinking of you.