i will remember her:
in the hotel room the morning after my birthday. she’d felt ill late that night, we’d barely slept, the television droning in black and white peripheral. when the sun rose, we drew back the curtains and stared down dozens of stories to the honking matchbox cars on the way to early church lit up like spring-shot ladybugs. we shut the curtains tight and laid entwined on the bed, making music, playlists on my laptop.
