Acer Sacharrum

Our friendship started with a story,

Really:

When we cradled our violins

And swept our bows through the air,

Giggling as we peeked into the holes

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

Once, we met. 

My hair was up, and the world was coated with snow,

and you

 talked to me with wide blue eyes

and a slippery smile, easy to fall into.

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

They say the world was once wider, 
measured in scraped knees and firefly nights, 
in the space between streetlights, 
where time was counted in the hush before dinner.