We moved into this apartment

On an April morning, when

a bell from the Norwegian church

across our street,

with a drawing of a caged bird

on its tinted blue glass door,

woke us up.

I walked to the window,

to see the street below when,

a storm of yellow pollen

blew across, from a lonely tree

in bloom.

I undressed under the shower

as you changed the shower curtains.

Old memories, caught in the drain,

like hair in a tub, slipped away.

New rooms are new beginnings.

You told me how time slowed here:

The light outside our windows,

still with no curtains,

streamed in,

and hurt your eyes.

I told you to wait,

It is only our second day here,

I too felt it,

like chia seeds in milk,

time swelled and stood still.

With a wet napkin,

I cleaned the door knob

when I imagined the face of our old tenant

with a Chinese name that I could not pronounce

His fingerprints all over the door.

You wiped the shelves clean

for your books to find their home

You eagerly set up

that room of your own

While in clutter,

I sought myself.

We wandered, like water birds,

from room to room,

unused to its new smell.

Someday,

you and I will remember

to walk into each other

to find that lost key

to a room where

we once found love.

published in The Palm Leaf, UK, October 2018