I remember the cold that arrived.
I remember you coming through the door of my home.
Each night I’d rise from my orange room and
go to the window edge. Dress in black, you smelled
of warm kitchen, toasted bread.
You sat there, jointless and happy, atop the radiator.
All of the lights shook without sound, they hung
like water under the cabinets, made self portraits
on metal bowls, and I went about
Now, the philodendron continues its descent from the ceiling.
Now, you prepare to leave
even though I gathered the wind bursts in
my pockets, the dust mountains from the corners
of the room. Even after I tried to be
the house that welcomes winter
with elegant arms.