Self-Portrait &/ Or Aubade With Is It Morning Already?
Take me back to the room
rusted shut, the door locked by a night we once
entered & never returned from. Trace my palm
like your grandmother’s softened &
papery hands—where the touch of your finger-
tip blots the ink of your name. Tell me
what do you see, darling?—is all I say. Show me
how my hands carry a world you just found in the dark
of your eyes. Though this is only the first
night. A night where the walls are made of nothing
but air. A city under your feet like daylight held
inside the bones. You are a body that won’t, that can’t
shiver, telling my body to hold still. & there are
no ghosts here. Darling—another night, our mouths
will hold a single shard
of your history—a shared wet crush between
the lips like prayer while the shadows in the room
ripple into someone’s tomorrow. Any
tomorrow. Any war to run from.
Any distant life you ended up finding
yourself inside of. Now here, as dawn fails
to bloom from this single candle-
lit room, every door in the hushed city
opens. Like every morning
you wake up to.
– for T. C.