340 steps

M.R.


the bed’s a mess, cooling off.
two glasses of wine –
half-full,
half-forgotten.

you wipe your stomach,
skin still carrying traces of me,
while I’m in the kitchen,
making coffee,
cracking eggs,
pretending this is just
another morning.

– hey… you have a shirt I can borrow?
– yeah, check the closet.

you walk slow,
barefoot,
hair – tousled thunder,
too tired to care about a shower,
too handsome to notice.

– found one?
– yeah.
why do you have so many ties?
all these suits?
– work stuff.
not everyone likes me naked
like you do.

you laugh –
quiet,
sleep-warm.

we eat eggs.
we laugh more.
I run my hand through your hair –
you squirm.
it tickles.

and I look at you,
really look –
and think,
this is someone I want to stay.
someone I want to f…
and hold,
and wake up with.

the elevator’s working now,
but I still take the stairs.
all 340 steps,
down,
to drive you home,
and then back up
to this quiet,
empty apartment
that still smells like you.

I love living
a made-up life.