Katrina Kaye

As the unsullied sun
peaks over the Sandias,
I recall the mornings
after your nightshift
when you would slip
into my room.

Your movements, slow
and silent, intent on letting
me sleep for that final hour,
but my eyes moved behind
closed lids, searching for you.

You undressed like a ghost and
crept in next to me,
still smelling of bar food,
cigarettes, cleaning solution,
a life I left behind.

It was only a twin bed
but somehow we fit.
We held each other,
my hand to your heart,
head tucked under your chin,
breathing slow and deep,
trying to create a lifetime
in less than an hour.

Sometimes,
I still think about you.

“Reminiscence” is previously published in A Scattering of Imperfections (2009).