I told myself
I’d write a poem
while my dinner cooled
and then
I poured a glass full
of tequila,
squeezed limes
into a mason jar,
curled my hair,
sang along
to Ella
and danced.
This place is lived in,
warm
with scuffed floors
and throw blankets
that still hold your shape.
The fruit flies
have learned
to keep a respectful distance
and they spin by the windows,
eating our mint plant
and laughing tiny-little
laughs
at the bigger bugs
on the other side
of the screen
who are gnawing
at the same bland grass.
This place is loved in,
scented 
like the two of us
entwined.
The dust on the floor
is no longer just my skin
when it’s breezed 
into the corners.
I told myself
I’d write a poem
while you were out
and then
this place
sneaked up behind me
the way you do
and wrapped its wooden arms
around my middle,
kissed me gently
on the neck
and it whispered to me
that it misses you too.

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