Do you remember our first night in the flat?
How we sat on a windowsill with cigarettes &
watered the succulents that lined the windows
with our cold peppermint tea.
The thread of my smoke broke into night and
we split the last hooch of the Summer
while two flights down, we watch a man
who lives in the multistorey,
and wondered if the whisky in
his bottle will outlast his body.
You could always make a feast out of freezer scraps,
frozen chips flavoured with thyme and peas.
I focused my fork on a single pea, threaded the tiny planet while,
we stared out to the pale cabbage rose moon.
We made out the muffled cries of another couple’s arguments
& just for a moment,
we glowed with the purpose of ordinary things.
I liked the late dusks of August, and how neighbours left
their curtains undrawn and windows ajar so night’s cooler air
could dispel the day’s heat,
& across the street, windows lit up like yellow chambers.
A kitchen manifested, a silhouette looked at his olive oil, or
balsamic or wine, I can’t tell. But the body
of it in his hand was as real as yours, because
every shape longed to be known to us,
and I wanted to trust something, even if it was you.