If there is a room inside of me
There was a window in the bedroom.
with your name written in it
Her bed was beneath it. In the afternoon with the lamp off
the language it is written in is a lovely one.
we stretched on the mattress.
One of figs and birds
Sometimes touching each other, sometimes not.
and beaches the color of butter.
Sometimes our fingers just lingered,
The walls blue, and at least one of them
made from nothing but windows.
the day laying across us and the walls,
Another has shelves of speckled stones.
the color of the walls mixing
with the sun's dead empty light.
The light pours across the floors
It made everything in the room white.
and the trees outside
burn with song.
Soft. Open.
That's what I remember.
