and then we climbed up onto the roof together to watch the sunrise

when I was too young to know better,

my friends threw a futon in the

basement of our apartment building,

and there I lived.

 

they slept stories and stories above me,

beckoning me up the endless flights only

to shove me down again

with a word,

or a

pat on the head.

 

they loved me somehow,

enough to seek my company day after day

and then move out

in the middle of the night

without another word.

 

I stayed, though.

I’d never known

anything else.

 

and then,

over time,

beds and people

appeared in my basement;

gradually,

like a fog seeping over the

sun-starved earth.

 

they loved me differently,

enough to lighten the weight that pressed down on my cave

but I always felt like they belonged

up there, sleeping above me like

others had before them.

 

and then:

 

“i miss you so goddamn much.”

 

oh

 

oh.