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.