sunspot.

Before you, love was a
hurricane, tearing on through,
uprooting everything in its
reckless reach and always
bearing the name of some man.

Study the lessons carved carefully
along the windowsills, my handwriting
measured, nothing that is
meant to stay will leave, or
love should not feel like
bruising, and every time
love failed, I endured here,
tearful and rebuilding, restoring place.

On the living room floor, I find
the cat stretching his body
along a sunspot, warm and
golden and grateful, the
same way he rests in
your company, and I find you
in every small refuge, the
morning coffee, sunset amble,
TV show cycling in the midst
of gutting grief, you crack
the door with green flowers
for the tabletop, and, like an
exhale, I pull you across my
shoulders, blanket familiar,
and forget whatever roars,
cold and damp, out the window.