Chai Tea and Norah Jones
Bayleaf Wilson
 
 
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.
 

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