The Window
We whispered under hushed kisses and then
our story led to the surface of your moth-eaten mattress
with the exposed silver springs,
the ones that pricked me.
In the times you’d leave me there,
resentment toward you and myself
crept in all over again,
but I kept my mind, and my unfulfilled heart, busy.
I’d gaze out the bedside window
looking down onto the second-story view of the brick-paved street,
the neighbor’s silhouette in her window as she bathed,
the bit of your roof I yearned to perch on, but never did,
and the overgrown foliage jumble in your jungle of a yard.
There grew the tree that showed me time.
Its leaves died when I believed we died
in the fall.
When they came back
in the spring,
I, too, came back
to you.