Our house is a black box.
We drape every window
but one, a pinhole
to capture the sun.
At night our eyes go dark as ink.
Our memories marbleize at
the edge of the bedroom.
Come morning,
we are nothing
but inverted images
fed by shared light.
You tell me to smile
and I braid your hair.
Upstairs, the children
develop like ghosts.
I put on another record
and the dark disc spins,
its needle lulled
into grooves the way
you are lulled into me.
We could almost dance together,
but the couple at the window
will not move until
we come into focus.