A stranger moved into my one bedroom apartment
on the corner of Grant Avenue and Oak Street.
I know because they left a bong in the window.
I stare through the frosted glass and the broken blinds
at the silhouette of a curvy woman with curly hair.
The sunflowers in the courtyard have wilted into flakey, brown, halos
and the door has been painted red.
It refuses to greet me, so I push it open
and I climb the three stories.
I drag my bare feet over the hardwood floors,
and I press my spine against the fiberglass tub.
I beg it to take me back.
Instead it cracks open,
it swallows me,
It spits me out into my mothers house,
it covers my face with a cotton sheet,
and it lays me down on a twin sized bed.
It tells me to stop calling and move on.
So I cram two years into a U-Haul truck
and I stuff them into the attic to collect dust.
I visit them sometimes,
but they won’t look at me.
They used to think I was beautiful.
Until the infatuation faded,
and the city didn’t want me.