thirteen july
two : fifty a.m.

he just moved in across the street. across our busy, parking-on-the-right-side, polluted, broken traffic signal street.

we sit on his stoop and talk about the same things everyone talks about. we lie on our stomachs on his apartment floor, listening to recorded cellos, feedback.

he makes me crave treehouses, first winter snows, late nights drinking tea and watching the whiteness pile up outside.