the lamps we burn

There is an alternate universe where you and I are living in a ranch house, the sort that sits on a hillside and has no walls without windows. The lamps we burn are turned on at midnight and only on the cloudiest of days. I am twenty pounds thinner and wear a long white silk nightgown. Under my feet is a floor made of concrete, burned and chemically treated. Out the back door, past the silver kitchen with no bread crumbs is a creek that runs down the hillside that we live on. I’ve placed small cairns of stones I’ve found on walks around its edges. Lanterns and solar-powered fairy lights fill the trees and it rarely rains. This alternate universe must be California.

Yellow Eurydice butterflies fly low around my ankles while you are inside sleeping. Our bed is made of driftwood and is covered in white quilts that rumple attractively around our turning bodies. The french doors are always open and the room smells of sweat, sex, morning breath, and eucalyptus. I stay outside for as long as I can before returning to you. Your hair is rumpled and your chest is bare and I crawl back in bed with you.

rainbow eucalyptus – image courtesty npr image © Cedric Pollet


2 thoughts on “the lamps we burn

"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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