we looked up from our place on the ground as we slept on hard-wood floors
and claimed we could pin-point certain constellations
and we were dragging black crayons between the lines
because (for the first time) we wanted to prove something to ourselves.
We weren’t out of minds just yet.
we shifted the bed to the other side of the room
and moved the dresser in front of the window;
to block out memories of the outside and all the hurt we’d felt before.
we’d sweep up dust-angels and watch them follow our lungs down.
We weren’t ready to leave just yet.
incense would burn holes in our eyesight and fog our common sense
and we’d watch the smoke twist around our fingers all night long.
we were twirling and swirling and curling our toes
beneath the summer sun and glow of artificial light until we couldn’t feel a thing.
i don’t think we could support ourselves.
There’s cracks in the bedroom ceiling.
and you left behind a letter addressed to what you saw in me,
stained with howling winds and the wolves that hid in the shadows.
you said you missed the outside but you were lying and now you’re gone.
i threw stones at the door and cried all night;
now this is just another empty apartment.
i moved the bed again
but i still can’t stop waking up on the wrong side.