This Apartment
by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

I twist the wand that opens
the blinds, let the late morning
sun stumble in with its plume
of upshot dust. Andre is out
on the balcony, tremolo in
his veins, a cigarette pinched
between fingers like a pencil
stub. He watches it burn to
his knuckles while wisps of
our spoken words rise and
dissolve. He looks out over
rooftops, a thorny Christ
tattoo on his chest. I play
an LP to make this apartment
feel less like exile. The sweet,
sad song captures his attention.
The remains in his ashtray he
gives to the wind.

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