Remember standing in the corner
of the window in your bedroom,
looking at the sunset? I do.
I had always loved the picture the sun made
when we sat on the worn, striped couch
in your living room, watching
as the orange orb rose or sank
below the tree-topped hills
that rolled into the distance past
your house before rising into mountains.
I had always loved the picture
we made, looking at the sun.
So you pulled me up the stairs
because you said the view was better
there. I pressed my nose against the glass
and wished to slow the rays of color fading
into dusk, wished to lean back and rest
in your warm arms, wished to fall
back in your bed where I belonged.
(Minor changes. My life is a tableau of minor changes.)