the apartment suite is white and round and inward facing. at the eleventh hour the place is soft and still if not for the trickle of fountains. streams pass down the white walls of one landing to the next in and out of plants hanging and crawling in latitudinal directions. each landing is a ring of rooms sheltered from natural light under the spire of a beige big top tent. you'd never know it's nearly midnight from inside. a soft stone courtyard below and stepping stones to cross the manmade streams. from our spot on the top landing we could see any other movement as it happened if it did. a zen panopticon or some other kind of prison. it reminds us both of a gallery in New York, though we don't say so til morning.
you sacrifice a Friday night to leave the silly city / see me acting in a play. the stars or moon give us our best run of the season. I bite my tongue in thanks. in the audience I see you sitting with my mother. after the show she tells me you bought her dinner. you play coy and laugh off her thanks. when we make it to our room we're as we were before. our limbs coil to comfort / close the space between the time since last we danced around our hearts. I find it funny that you came all this way to see me play pretend. have you not seen us in the mirror?
our last words into sleep are the same. when I wake it's dark before the cracks under the curtains. you're warm against my neck. I wear you like a coffin.
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