There we were,

lying in the double bed of her

room. Her alarm clock, although always off by an hour,

read early into the morning.

Above us, the skylight showed scattered stars,

a pinch of the universe.

Nestled under the covers, our heads

placed on separate pillows,

we discussed sexuality;

"I feel like there are too many labels

in the LGBT community.

It's too hard to know all of them."

And I almost believed her,

I'm mouldable in that way.

"But it gives people a sense of

self-identity," I said, "It's important

for them to feel valid."

Her reply: "I get that, but it makes it confusing.

I wouldn’t want to be restricted in that way."

“I guess it’s hard to find a balance between

belonging and being boxed in.”

The smell of incense and previously lit

chai candles still lingered,

as we stared at the pin holes

etched into her slanted ceiling.

I wonder if she thinks about those nights,

when the world was ours to talk about