The waves are crashing at our feet and we talk about what it means to be ––
A woman.
Her mom is resilient,
Taking the world as it comes ––
Counting the stars.
As I lay in his bed, my body naked ––
Exposed,
I think about her.
The nights she stared at stranger’s ceilings, just as all of our sisters.
Counting not the stars but the length of his breath,
Measuring the tone of his moans.
Her love is the waves, the stars ––
His popcorn ceiling.
Her love is the half-yes’s and sleepy confessions,
The lonely walks and the dried tears ––
Awaiting their return.