We fell in love in the apartment where poets fall in and out with the weather. Where the floorboards know wholly the soles of our feet. And the walls love the trace of my fingertips. We found life where the manuscripts were birthed in the underground presses of the building’s basement where we’d sleep. Where the mattress had no proper sheets. Where the radio screamed at the streets and the cats came and went as they pleased. And the summers kept up with the thirst of childhood.

We fell apart at the end of the summer and then you found me again in the spring when my hair was long and you relearned to smile.