draft of a poem i wrote at 4 am

Your body pressed against me, the trees in the wind

For days the apartment was stuffy

and hot, the air thick. I felt like

one of those small flies, doing

circles in the air above nothing,

languid like.

We went to bed with the windows

open and the sheets thrown off,

sprawled out on separate sides

of the mattress. Not touching.

Somewhere in the night

the wind picked up and the kitchen

blinds rapped against the sill,

the recycling rattled across the balcony.

I woke to find that you had smoothed

the covers over us, and pressed

yourself against me.

I missed how at the old house,

the wind made the trees sway

and groan and crack, and I thought

one would come crashing through

the roof.

I am so young and still learning:

Life is a series of things you do not think

you will miss, until you do.