We traced our fingers along the paper
shores of Boston Harbor for hours
until you had to go home. I wanted, as
I reached after you, for you to stay
with me and never go home. You
are my home. Your eyes are (what else?)
the windows. A bed is what your chest
has become. Meanwhile, your hands
are the doorknobs and you’ve made
an oven of your mouth. I don’t need
any more than this. But I am not
your home.
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