Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

the bed was an island we’d trek across daily. together, we unearthed thousands of patches of cool sheet and fourteen million stonehenges made of pillows. we rushed to show each other every time. on saturdays, we’d make out for an audience of screens. when i was bored of the plot, i liked to imagine we were everyone’s favorite characters beyond the fourth wall. everything was quiet yet loud in that way it can be. just a bedroom, but also a moonbounce. or the moon. a solar eclipse. Miami for the first time. at night, i was obsessed with the sound of rain slapping against the balcony or dripping down my phone. and then, as the story goes, we woke up one morning and the island had shrunk. the landmarks we’d labeled our own suddenly felt provincial and obvious. instead of soft, your mouth scared me. it looked like it could sharpen something fast and well, if i looked away for just a minute. it’s funny how those things work. one day, your home is reduced to four walls where you’ve hung a sad little collection of things. sitting on a plot of land that very recently was somebody else’s.

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