Let heaven be a tune that belongs
to an eighteen-year-old boy who has never
had his own room—until now. He doesn’t
even know himself well enough to decorate.
Comic books scatter the floor like neon
landmines: pow and kablam! He’s been lighting
a scented candle a sad girl brought him.
It smells of apples and dirty socks.
For the evening, there’s no war or civil
unrest, just two teenagers laying in
a twin bed, a rowboat, or an island
of uncertainty. This song, he says and
grabs her hand. It’s winter, his dad’s at work
the dusk is closing one world for another.
His paw finds the small of her back and he
tries not to maul her. Both lives shifting,
their shadows are elongated notes
on a slick, wood floor. He loses
and catches the rhythm, the bass guitar,
the floating saxophone solo. She knows this won’t last
but the fleeting hints of cinnamon and clove
keep bringing her back,
keep bringing her back,
to this shore.
Photo by Yehor Milohrodskyi on Unsplash
