Sometimes,
my place will get too quiet
and I’ll think of ours—
that third-story apartment
with drafty windows,
slamming doors,
floorboards creaking from the weight of us.
We’d tread lightly—
tense on tip-toes,
afraid it would all give out from underneath us
at any moment.
Our neighbors only knew us by
the echo of our voices and
the kettle screaming every morning
like siren sounds.
Puffs of smoke from dragon’s breath
curled up to popcorn ceilings.
Alarms with covered mouths;
lovers oblivious to the fire.
The walls grew thin with time,
losing insulation like appetite.
In July,
the rooms would swell with heat
until we’d suffocate.
In December,
I’d hold you from behind
just to keep you warm.
Sometimes,
my place will get too quiet
and I’ll think of ours—
our fights like fingerprints
stained in the stucco paint.
What happens to the secrets four walls keep?
Do they remember our names?
