He was making coffee in the kitchen and mumbling to himself
soft words I could not make out from my post
on our couch –
sweet murmurs, I thought grinning to myself
about how my skin looks in the night lit room we share (am I illuminated, like you? or does the harsh reality of an open mouth leave pools or drool on my pillow?)
but he was really just grumbling
about how messy I had left the kitchen
the night before.
I left coffee stains on our relationship – half full mugs forgotten on end tables, his bedside table, the kitchen table, the ledge of our shower, on the bookshelf next to our door.
each cup a ring, tarnished wood, left unwashed until
he’d wake up early and do the dishes,
like a scavenger hunt.
I thought it might be charming
like how I chew in my sleep
and how obsessively I’d water our plants
and the little notes I’d leave under the ashtray, in the freezer, on our floor.
I told you I found cassiopeia in the night sky, while I was drunk and lying on your parent’s roof, dangling my feet over the edge and watching remains of the night drifting down the road.
I lied – orions belt has always been the only constellation I could find, but I thought maybe you could love a girl who knew her stars.
Profile: Rosie Nalle