He and I lived separately together—
holed ourselves up in a ramshackle haven where he and I
barely brushed glances.
Maybe there were termites in the foundations,
or a roof that spat rain into broken pots on the floor.
Maybe I was tired of tossing myself into closets
just because his cautious footsteps would echo my way, tired of feeling
like a shirt I didn’t care enough about to hang
or fold.
Maybe I was too satisfied with his and my distanced shadows,
too afraid of what would happen if their penumbras touched
again.

One night, creeping like a
criminal, I whispered across floors and stairs
until my shadow fingertips found
the door.

He was there in that room,
soaked in midnight, eyes closed,
his quiet body heavy against the mothchewed couch cushions.
His sleeping breaths pulled me to him like some
pillow freed feather and my hand fluttered down
and touched the part of him
I had fractured.


Dry lips that didn’t feel like mine pressed themselves to his warm cheek,
shaped a secret against his skin, and tasted
a few stray hairs that had splayed across his face
in between dreams.


Another breath floated out of his parted mouth,
strong enough to carry me to the door
strong enough for a weedflower wish to lift
into the wind.


Lying there, mouth dry, eyes flashing
open, he heard the walls of our
separately together home
deteriorate into termites, moth bites, a leaky roof
and rusty locks on creaking, closing doors.