From across the hall, I watched her double over Coleridge, sympathizing as she looked up to the thin curtain filtering the street-light universe past the pane held in hot glue. The click-heels, car barks, ceaseless L-Train turnstiles, tipsy choirs in cracked-door taverns, hinges, keys on carabiners, bus hydraulics, the wall clock, and her fingers caressing the page. She loved a soft wind carrying birdsong through screen doors and dowel chimes. She used to leave her shoes lace-tangled by the key rack until she saw glass pollen sparkling in a caged tulip blossom. She raised the book and sullenly whispered the last stanza of Frost at Midnight into the spine, wondering how anyone could live away from impressionist-dandelion forests, children's plastic toys in the front yard, and church bells at every hour.
I wondered the same thing.
This poem will be relevant to my girlfriend and I's situation in a few years.