I wrote this poem on September 24, 2021:
It's cold when I fall asleep curled up on the couch at your friend's house.
And I never know who all the people are in the kitchen, on the back step.
Drinking.
Smoking, letting in the draft from the screen door.
There are no throw blankets here. And I never really fall asleep.
Not fully asleep anyway.
I am tired and I wanted to go home many hours ago.
But you're interested in someone. And we're along for the ride.
When we do get home, a blanket feels like a luxury.
A warm layer of protection.
A comforting fabric hug.
How many couches have there been over the years.
How many moments of loneliness in a loud room we didn't choose.
And wouldn't choose.
Sometimes there was a jacket.
Sometimes the door didn't let much breeze in.
Sometimes the breeze was welcomed in the heat.
And the smoke.
And my empty belly.
Unsettled.
Uncovered.
-Amanda
