She was an arcade cabinet
that only answered emails,
with a decal painted on that
looked like space. I followed
all the subtle signs she gave me,
and the long walk home’s the first
thing I remember.
We move faster in the cold
because the air is light.
Empty of the energy,
but with an absence of the weight
that keeps us comfortable.
She drags her hand along
the metal fence while making
sense of everything before.
She unlocks her door and we go up
the stairs to her lofted living space.
There are posters of dead musicians
on the walls. We smoke because
we both can see the nerves across
our faces, and the air becomes a moving
wall between us.
The talk is all of future things
and moments in the past.
The ashtray on the carpet slowly fills.
Morning wraps its light around the
hemisphere, and we see so far beyond
the normal distance.