An invite from you,
that new year’s eve.
We had been long time, no see;
that night, we were so much of us to see,
and no time. Time stopped.
3 a.m. and we were whispering, giggling, on your friend’s couch.
We left, secret in the morning dark
Walking barefoot to my house, I drove the getaway car.
Tension, pausing and replaying, co-owned by our separate silence.
I opened the door to our new apartment-
or did you open the door?
The memory is slipping away.
The carpet was freshly vacuumed,
our connection freshly polished.
We had one mattress, my twin-sized answer
to your question.
That night, we didn’t close our eyes for more than a minute.
So much time, and no sleep.
There was too much to do together;
too much to think about, to dream about, to laugh about,
to keep to ourselves.
Our floors, our doors that stuck from the paint,
our place to house all the silenced desires,
to stoke all the short-phrased fears.
We were sitting opposite each other in wicker chairs, or were they wood?
You were wearing a yellow shirt,
Or was it blue?
All the memories are slipping away.
My hair was tied up with a scrunchie that you let me borrow
(later, you would throw all those borrows in my face)
But for now, we picked up our forks and talked about
Human connection. And our perfectly cooked eggs.
Your lips were consistently curved up, seducing mine to do the same.
Your eyes would explode every time I said something that echoed inside you,
Something just for you to hear.
My eyes would blush in their own way, looking down and away from you –
So much was in you.
So much of me.
It was midnight, or near it.
Fresh out of the shower, I was sleeping naked and covered by a thick bed sheet.
You knocked on my door and came in,
Tears knocking on your bottom eyelid.
You sat on the end of my bed.
You responded by laying next to me, your silhouette
Tracing the curvature of my own,
Only a blanket and your big t-shirt between us.
Your boyfriend is in the other room, or did he leave already?
You were holding onto me, and I was holding onto my breath.
We were both holding onto the moment, the veiled connection.
Present day, I’m sitting on my mattress, on the floor we don’t co-own.
We don’t co-own borrows, favors, gifts, apologies, fights, touches anymore.
We don’t talk anymore, don’t connect anymore.
It ended in silence, we ended in silence, in avoidance.
We avoided lifting up the veil, lifting up that blanket, lifting up that shirt.
You would push, I would push back, but we never met in the middle.
Never merged into the middle lane.
Instead, I found this new carpeted floor. This floor we don’t co-own.
We don’t co-own anything anymore.