Pause

We met during P.A.U.S.E. so
all of our nights might as well have been one
you come the door
peel the balaclava from your head
without hurry,
spritz your hands, a germaphobe
even before—
and we climb to the roof

I had been reading Exit West when you buzzed
(Mohsin Hamid shares a name with your cat)
and his protagonists share an origin story
meeting, too, at their city’s collapse
they had doors that led them across borders
we have a ladder, and a hole in the ceiling

the tobacco clings to itself as you roll, preparing
what you smoke, I smoke
the premise of our intimacy, breathing the same air

we exhale plans we will never see through
trapped as we are in the present tense
camping, Long Island, the unused tent—
we wouldn’t have liked it much, anyway
our bodies too limp, too easily cold

no we belong here, lying
on the tar beach still warm from the day
your head on my stomach, your body jutting from my side
as if we mean to spell the letter H
for empty planes passing overhead

Grace Kearney is a Baltimore-bred writer currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at the City College of New York. Her writing has appeared in The Baltimore Sun, HuffPost, The Other Journal, Matador Review, Journal of Palliative Medicine and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn.