by Kelsey Mahaffey
There was something about the light that winter.
When it was cold outside, the way it would bend
and creak, heaving itself through the panes.
I’d watch it creep over the sill, slipping silence
into our bed, lifting the covers with a brazen hiss.
Snaking up your leg as if invited, tongue flicking
your soft belly as it rose and fell in sleep.
How my toes would freeze at this
intruder burrowing deep into your chest,
a false halo planted firmly on your heart—
as if to stay, as if it knew you,
as if it were me who didn’t belong.
And you, blind, by the golden and shine,
radiating a warmth I thought only meant for me.
Even now, as you turn from me in sleep,
your face glowing—still searching for the sun.