you’d want to go back, too
that place of open windows,
curtains blown by city air
drying sticky sheets
at two in the morning
after we got back up
to make sushi
from rice (the wrong kind)
and sardines,
that place where we
drew a bath together,
then slept late
and you rushed out the door
to make it to your first class
that Monday, and every Monday
then, we’d lounge past tea time,
not knowing what tea time was anyway,
fry sausage to make box pizza,
play some Prince on the stereo
leaving the windows
open again