Valentine to my old apartment

The chipped-paint archway wall against my back, the cold shower tiles against my cheek. The delicate balance of sitting close on the porch swing but not too close, at least not until he leaned in. The section of the kitchen counter that broke off underneath our weight, the chipped glass on the cabinet behind my head. The way the soap dish looked from underneath while lying in the bath and playing 20 Questions. The velvet of my couch underneath my bare legs, the tiny leap my heart would make at the clink of the pullcord against the lamp when he leaned across me to shut it off. Lying on my back while talking on the phone and feeling my hipbones against the hardwood floor, my eyes closed, his voice in my ear. Him lying facedown on the floor with his shoes off, dress pants on, while I slipped off my sandals and walked on his back. Supporting ourselves with the doorframe, freezing when the knock came. My bed, with the old headboard that would crash into the wall and wake up the downstairs neighbors until we duct taped the dishtowel to its back. The old bedside table, with the drawer that would stick shut at the most inopportune moments. The backs of my legs hitting the washing machine, his hand over my mouth at the sound of footsteps on the basement stairs. Inside the hall closet with the broken light, fingers clutched to splintered shelving and slipping, suitcases falling down from above. The night we fell asleep on the living room rug, everything in moving boxes but the candle and the book. The night he pulled the mattress off the bed and onto the dining room floor, looking up at the ceiling fan turning lazily while the sun came up.

Old loves, old house, old life. Happy new.