I.
Your silhouette moves from window
to window in the house
you live in. I'm standing in the driveway
waiting for you to emerge--
A phone rings and your head pivots
towards the sound,
hair flying out behind you
bright black whips curled.
II.
We are ballroom dancing
in the hallway of my parents' house.
I watch my hand
resting on the small of your back
in an old oval mirror.
I count time for your clumsy
steps, teach you how
to dip without dropping me.
Soon, my hair sweeps the floor
with every quick arc
III.
Coiled inside a nest of blankets,
I pretend to sleep, and watch
you talk on the phone through my eyelashes.
You're dressed, ready to be going,
ready to be gone. You hang up
without saying good-bye.
IV.
It is one in the morning,
I wait for you to fill
the left side of the bed.
When your headlights thaw the dark
of the room, I fog my glasses
with my breath
to see you clearly.
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