"Let's not sleep with our heads towards the window", you'd say

I know

as I know the golden green wallpaper on three out of five walls in your room,

perhaps even the elaborate trumpet dance you learnt from your dad when you were seven,

and the subtle scent of roses in your mom's homemade avocado butter.

I think I know the crooked smile you gave baristas when they misspelled your name

I think I know the old brass mezuzah on your door

I think I know the memory box with our pictures from Belmont
I think I'm sorry I deleted mine

I think we exhausted all our candles

The light doesn't stretch out on the stairs any more; it really doesn't need to.

Just like that, one moment we try to find our space
and the next
our bodies make origami.

"do we have a thousand paper cranes, yet?"
"just an armful"

how unfortunate.