The home I found in the west tasted like
tobacco in the afternoon. It was
a sleepless space, a broken mattress that
provided no room for dreaming but
enough to learn another body’s rhythm.
Natural light snuck in through the
wooden window at 6 am. It made a portrait out of you.
The moon had run away
while we were sleeping but left me in
the sanctuary of your presence.
I traded wine for blisters on my toes
on a makeshift Halloween.
I could not remember how loneliness felt.
The air was warm as the bobby pins began to escape
the confines of my curls.