In the empty apartment,
white-walled and new.
This smell of rebirth
lies thick, the air
is heavy as you breath.
There is beginning here,
I tell you.
And so we both nod,
heads bent to creation
of where we will be.
And the cardboard box mountains
build themselves up in the middle
of the floor, the only summit we have yet
to reach, in this strange quest
of breaking things down
and making them new.
The tall windows let in tall light
and it falls in patterns we don't know,
can't name. The ceiling bears foreign
constellations, a bright universe of cracks
we must navigate.
Can we paint?
I ask as you look out the window
onto the street below (we have not walked
here long)
I think so.
And then,
what color for the kitchen?
Which is you favorite?
So the kitchen is green.
And the bedroom is blue.
The potted fern goes on the
new crumbling mantle.
We hang blinds to
shield us in night.
The sounds drip different,
the floorboards
contest when unexpected.
We move with a quiet need
to put this back together,
in a new tessellation.
The mattress in the middle of
the living room floor
where we sleep these
first nights
as we build ourselves
a fortress,
a nest.
It is the central point
to hold us together.
Why in the bedroom?
I ask.
Because you must always
be part of this new space.
Because I need to know
you are here.
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