home is the crook of that arm
breakfast sounds
the steering wheel turning the corner
the broken chair you won’t stop sitting in
a coffee cup that doesn’t match
to covet the same object and then share
the hair of a hug
a finicky light switch/doorhandle/appliance
the memory a scuff in the floor evokes
a catalogue of smells
being where you would’ve called
having your place on the couch
under covers, too close to see where eyelashes end and eyelids begin
knowing your way, middle of the night, to bathroom
running in wet grass
holding hands
a tree house
wanting to be nowhere else
feeling like someone
knowing
by Cristina Paul
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