there is an apartment overlooking the
port lights where the dog dreams on the sofa

where you and i fold against the
kitchen island, contemplating the
tenderness of gnocchi

there is a liquor cabinet made of
mirrors and brass and distilled
light at the edge of the granite

the vinyl of your favourite band spins
the living room into jewel tones, you
sing along to the chorus as i touch the
small of your back, reaching for a blade,
laughing as my mascara runs from the shallots

is that our life?
or are we
somewhere else–

am i getting warmer?

is that us, instead, by that hearth? that worn mantle
holding pictures of you, beaming from your best
friend’s lap on the solstice, me at my sister’s
wedding, before i even knew how your name felt
in my mouth, holding the bouquet i caught mid-air,
like punctuation in the story of you.

somewhere there is tiered glass in
the front door, chiseling the sun into
rainbows across your chin as you sift
through the mail, humming.

somewhere there is an oak floor showing us
its years as we swing out in the kitchen waiting
for the bread to rise. maybe, here, the dog rests by the
front window, soft eyes over the
gentians i planted with my mother,
that same morning we stirred earl grey on the
grass, our knees caked in dirt, & we watched
as all her worry for me, for my measureless heart making
homes in too small a space, out of muted tones,
honeyed into the breeze.

somewhere, i sit on the front step, listening
to you smile, and i wonder
is this what finally feels like

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