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Tall Wooden Door
We’re at the tall wooden door,
and I’m holding you in my arms.
I pull away and I remember
all the 1 am kisses and secrets.
I hear the faint creak of the floorboards
as we sneak into your room to lay with you.
I picture the thrift store changing rooms
with no mirrors and two feet doors.
I can remember the playful fights
about who would be in the middle of cuddles,
on a bed too small to fit our laughs and bodies.
I can imagine you leaning on a train pole
at 11 am, going in a direction I can’t remember.
Because instead, I can only remember
the feeling of our hands interlocked.
And I miss the hushed whispers
between cold bodies on her rooftop.
I even wish I could go back to the sound of
potatoes frying as your favorite song plays
in the background ( I hate it but I love when
You grab my hand and dance with me)
But now we’re hugging and
my heart is clenching
because we’re at the tall wooden door.