You lie there inside
blinking at an eggshell ceiling
as you grow smaller
hearing all these cars pass
through a city street
just feet from your window,
a one-way narrowed by parked cars.
You don’t let yourself think
of the journey, of how lucky
you must be, must’ve been
to have been, to be, to have
someone else to be with you,
to think how greedy it seems
to want even more than that.
And so, instead, you think of names
for this desire, and for these
misadventures marked
without lilies or ceremony.
But there are no names
that take shape in your mouth
that leap from your tongue
that grow like moonflower
in the dark. There is only carlight
slowing through the blinds and silence,
painting prison bars across the wall.