Footfall in the long hallways above us,
painted stars on the ceiling, real stars from the balcony.
Teenagers were making out
by the public fountain.
You had a terrible apartment: The sink water tasted like blood.
I cut my fingernails over the toilet.
My parents were still married in another country.
Dark swallows were dropping themselves.
For a whole weekend,
I wore one of your shirts.
That will mean the most to me
in my short life. There was a big wormwood armoire
with an urn on top.
You said those were the landlady’s ashes.
The mattress made a sound as you lay down.
My shoulders were sunburned,
it hurt when you pulled my arm out of one sleeve,
I tasted your deodorant as the shirt came off.
Fall came and disappeared.
We were meant to live another life.
I mean here.