anaïs nin

t h i s  C | o s e



i map out
the dead ends
in my
neighborhood.

you
used
the map,
crashed
into
my front door,
drove
on the flowers
in the front yard
we planted
for your mother.

when
the roof
came down,
sunlight
fought its way
in.

the flaked paint
glowed
a rich
yellow.

low-hanging
clouds
stilled
above
the
cracked
ceiling beams.

everything
looked
lush.

we locked eyes
between
a bent lampshade
and
the split
love-seat.