My feet dream 
of new moments with the
stairs leading to your sixth floor flat
They remember every day they
walked inside you, on the
stained carpets you were
most nervous to show

I hear myself wanting
Silently asking you to
please hold me captive again,
while you cook jazz music with the
tips of your fingers next to my
knee-high socks, 
as my silhouette 
gathers with your blankets close enough to 
hear their secrets of how they make my 
world feel so soft and your
curtains promising to
block out whatever I’m afraid of 

Could I borrow one more morning 
so I can ask for another and
bring you donuts when we get there, 
stealing glances (that I will never give back) of every
honeyed tea bag you steeped for me, 
while my eyes fill up one last kettle