The sound of your ink-stained knuckles
Rapping on this apartment door
You had brought me wildflowers
From your mother’s garden
And tied them together
With frayed violet lace
How they looked so small and hopeful in your hands.
They lived on the windowsill for sometime
In this bare space
They watched
As I cooked eggs
And you
sipping your tea
Cross-legged on the floor
Talking about how
We would someday be surrounded
By art and dogs and apricots
The sun on our skin
Somewhere beyond these four walls.
But I hope that they remember
This box haven
Where we danced
To the crackling of the radio
The sounds of the Beatles
Tumble blindly
And make their way
Across our universe.
