We sleep in beds that aren’t ours
and use pillows formed to the shapes
of other people’s necks.

The curve of their bodies leave
shadows and memories. I feel
them seep into my skin as I sleep
and I wash them clean in the lake
in the dewy morning.

We make beds that aren’t ours
and rest in a sun that feels borrowed.
Blankets and linens smell clean,
but not like us. They are soft and worn
and cradle easily against our bodies.

We notice frames full of photographs
of people who aren’t our family.
Notes left on the fridge and drinking glasses
with fingerprints different from our own
kept in cabinets within our reach.

I eat fruit out of a bowl and wonder how
many others have tasted the iron of an old spoon
on their tongue.

At night, before the sun goes down
we ride bikes with broken seats that sit too low
and use a canoe that is dusty with another family’s story.