You sound different on the phone,
younger,
more like me.
I can see you lying across your bed,
the pink and white bedding neatly made
but the sheets crumpled underneath.
That’s the talking bed:
the place where people fall in love.
the place where people stay alive.
You’re doodling swirls on the rough casing
of an orange binder.
I’m unsettlingly chewing the paint
off a hairpin,
the black flakes getting caught in my teeth
as I press my feet against the closet doorframe.
