Chai Tea and Norah Jones
I left because she was my theory of oxygen.
The theory that, even though we need it to live, it’s slowly poisoning us.
I left because coconut hands and cold belts made me flinch.
And walking in churches made me feel like a born again sinner.
I didn’t stay for the incense and rosaries; it wasn’t enough.
Those have been traded for a room with concrete and cotton.
Laughter is quiet now. So quiet that it’s still. Why can’t the air move again?
I imagine, that my image is still tart beneath her eyelids.
Then again, she always was fond of sour things.
I hope that I’m engraved into every nick of wood on her staircase.
The staircase I cleaned from the dust and debris left in her wake.