“Honey, a week in Brooklyn doesn’t mean he loves you.”

But I remember: four flights of stairs, three quiet nights,

a reflection in a window, an unfamiliar hand,

joints stiff with cold, eyes that flayed,

a walk-in Prospect Park—

pointing out ruby specks of cardinals,

giants in the form of birch trees, broken gold link,

conversation in my throat, Sammy’s coffee,

pastry crumbs as thin as paper left on our shirts and lips,

morning breath, oily fingers, a folded red rug,

sheets peeling off like a milk-film,

buttered flowers with darkened edges, morning glory,

brass rooftops reflecting fire, phantom vibrations,

the hum of neon at St. Ends bar—

its reflection in our irises,

tied hands, a bruise on my knee, eyes never fully closed,

brushing hair out of each other’s faces, an earworm,

touching as though to memorize—

as though to hold steady,

breath on my cheek, days turning into nights and back again,

time slipping through my fingers, what was to be a final goodbye,

threads of black and silver hair found on my clothes days and days later.