I was blonde with a baby on my hip,

staring into the ocean near our house.

I was brewing stovetop decaf, longing

to stay half awake, as I curled up

in the corners of my ambition; a night

lamp who was once a flood.
I was leaving lipstick mugs on the sink

of our next-door neighbour. He was

a man with splinter hands. You were dying

because you knew. Whenever you reached

inside of me, my body was a coat rack

clutching someone else’s shelter.
Still, we checked the weather

forecast and dressed accordingly.

Our pillowcases damp

with stifled laughter, as we lost sleep

sharing comedy routines. 
I was blonde and we were in love

like old friends raising a future

in an underwater fireplace. 
You were the first person I knew

I could stay with forever. Still, I kept

seeing your car on a cliff, my wailing

hip, our lips too thirsty to kiss.
Plus, I’d be a terrible blonde.