A MEMORY

Turn the knob, light floods into the dim hall. Lazy hand creeps the doorframe and slides down the wall; flip the switch, the bright light ends. Through the blinds, a streetlight longingly casts shadows. You're in bed. Your clothes are on. Your breaths are patterned: long inhale, sharp exhale, pause. I run the tip of my longest finger across the thin gap between your pants and shirt before resting my palm flatly onto your stomach. My other arm works its way under the pillow beneath your head. I lay myself down fully with a long, slow breath. You smell of creme rinse and alcohol drink. I smile into your hairs.