My darling, with her clothes littered
on a floor painted orange.
The windows did not come prepared.
Cactus on a stool,
and a stack of our vinyls
(we bought them in a far away fair).
The nights are force with a paint of its own;
the windows steer it in,
clothes light up in appeasing glee.
When you get out of bed,
and look down a familiar walk to the tub.
It’s a feeling that digs into my chest,
and into the air that’s in between.
Shunning out the sheets that were over us,
stuck in a place I want to be.
Remember where our vinyls were?
They’re fuzzing away a black night’s sound
with a warring fervor.
Her wine’s surface bows to
fuzzing sound too.
I’d rather not have another, darling.
Her hand won’t write like yours,
and her dresses won’t sing like yours,
and the rain won’t stick to her neck
like yours.
People find something worth looking for,
I’m not willing to look that far.
It’s already read in the sweat,
and in the walk to the Nest.
We’ll talk about the stars that were clawed
into the ceiling with a box nail.
My darling—she reaches for the glass of water
on the nightstand.
Her lips are parched when
thin winter trees peek in;
spaces between them peek too.
Their eyes veer throughout the night though,
focusing momentarily on cactus.
Where our vinyls were.