Photo by Roberto Nickson from Pexels.com
He bent his knees to mine as my train arrived and gave me a
breakup and an “I love you” before he could exhale—my legs
still warm from his body. It became commonly performed and
recited as if it were his religion, the train stop acting as his
sanctuary. The memory still haunts me, but I move forward
with my face kissing the sky.
Winter is everywhere, and I pave the steps closer to my shelter,
pacing my breath with musical hums. I familiarize myself
with the unwelcoming scent of cat urine as I turn the door
into the apartment. She’s lying there effortlessly composing
sentences with fixed detachment, carving my presence with
an emotional landscape of withdrawal. Every word she speaks
feels like the end of a sentence. Isolation sets in, and she closes
the door behind her.
I retreat to the back door of the building and strike a match to
ignite the cigarette between my lips. Laughter and words are
exchanged below me. I recognize her voice. She never smokes
in the back. I shrug and remove myself toward the front of
the building with respect to her unspoken wish to avoid me. I
exchange a few breaths with the air and retreat back into the
place I cannot call my home. As my body sinks into a sea of
blankets, I daydream of a future where I belong.