Remember the upright bass and piano
in the cavern of a restaurant
under the Dolorosa Street bridge?
I keep placing myself back in your arms,
let your mind pour over my body.
We try bonding differently now:
no longer roses in your coat
but tree branches, full with spring blossoms.
The crickets are up all night, making it hard to resist their calls.
The story ends when I open the door
rather, find another reason to open that door.
My hair in its tight bun
by your hands –
those hands, the last on that list of things I refuse.