plus qu'hier, moins que demain.

white house (green trim)

the first night i moved in here,

i watched myself in the mirror, as if i were someone other than me.

and i could not remember:

         each of the features, in that order

the shade of my hair

or if i always had lines around my eyes.

i wrote a letter to who we were

and another to us now

and another to who we would have been: as if we never parted.

i sent it all to you.

this is our house,

i told us

i never knew death, or life

before

it’s the same thing

i did not want the white house. without

without

and

 i did not want the green trim.

that first night:

my feet didn’t touch our floor.

my hands didn’t trail to the blinds,

      i couldn’t dare to look outside

i fell asleep with all of the lights on