stay high, lie low

you try to explain, vaguely

one morning,

     over the sun spilling through

          open windows;

yellow and gilded dust.

over piles of sheets like

     frosting,

          croissants,

               coffee,

     books and papers and soft summer skin

   deep breath

that this was all you’d imagined and

absolutely

    nothing

          less.

you’ve only been here a day

   god, one day

of orange juice in paper cups and

     stains

          on the rug,

of neighbours and sweet smoke and

sleeping

     always or

never

     at

          all.

you’ve been missed.

it’s august now.

you were half-expecting a

tired,

     hungry sort of life;

beautiful and pale and

     struggling,

but it’s summer.

the floor is forest green -

it hides a multitude of

sins.

you pick your way through piles of

     books

          stacked up to the

               windows,

empty bottles and

empty boxes and he’s sitting

     cross-legged

on the bed.

quiet,

still,

you are held for so long you wake up in the sticky urban heat.

you feel safe.

honey-soaked,

     tea-stained,

          thick

               sweet clarity

     of his eyes,

and looking into them is like

sticking

to the ground;

ice and fur-lined,

     sheeted,

          winter white

time capsules.

everything sticks -

Christmas and snow and peppermint hot

     breath

          and that goodbye.