It is dark and apart.
Its sound is the sound of Nigerians singing.
It is nowhere we can find again
temporary and oblique
it has the smell of cigarettes
and sex.
It is where we try to keep awake
so we miss none of it.
It is fucking til our mouths
and throats are dry.
It is contrast
white on black in candlelight.
and breaks at dawn with the first
shattering beak of a bird cracking open.
It stays behind me as I drive
the frost streets home.
It is impossible to keep
even with these whispered promises
even with the healing
of kisses on scars.
It is the rumpled bed pulled straight.
The ache.
The place I want to be and can’t be:
safe.
