It was still cold outside, the air
still bit me when I started to bring over
trinkets to your home, layered little
boxes that were just parts of me-
some clothes, a proper skillet, a
silver necklace from my grandmother.
You’d come home and then you’d smile.
“I love how you fill this space,” you’d say.
You moved your things to make room
for mine: my records, my winter sweaters.
There was never a want for space or
a demand for room; the walls knew our warmth
like a kiss on the forehead, they knew the tone
of your laugh when you were seconds from sleep.
New latitudes will learn the way our legs
and fingers tangle before we rise, and nights
when we’ll swallow sangria and marvel at it all:
at the sound of what our life looks like.
[BIO]: Tara is a writer in Minneapolis and is currently at work on her first novel.