The bald air between us has nowhere to go,
presses its weightless body to
the ridge of your chipped tooth.
What remains in the trace
breath of our
exchange?
Possession
and bed frames.
I forget places
have names:
orange couch with
the water stain, Fire Island,
a cot with your spit on
the pillowcase.
Words without an
attic room, no peephole
wide enough to spy
the silver gears
that keep us
apart. Cogs
creak with
warmth,
from use
and yearning.
Swollen want,
a faint
symptom
of lost time
Click here to read Sofia Bagdade on the origin of the poem.
Image by Tanya Prodaan on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, and Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications. More of her work can be found at sofiabagdade.weebly.com. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
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