she says e7. a pawn opens the door for her queenliness.
over by the counter, a tower sighs into the wind
her order of starbucks coffee. he says a3
she playfully tilts her spoon of sunlit konjac jelly
to his lips. over by the bishops they are discussing
a door to hell. one says to put up a blockade
and a pawn glares in their general direction
she shakes her head and says d4. he accepts
and asks about distant, far removed things
like parental approval and the efficacy of
work home commute. she says she doesn’t mind.
enough to still offer an open door to the rest of her life.
he holds open the door. she gives him a kiss
with a fresh coat of lipstick twenty paces down
the street in return. she hits her shoulder on the
elevator door when they leave for the night and she
will touch that bruise in three days time in the shower
in the morning she gives him a key and an
address; square a5. it’s an invitation that he
doesn’t take, a doorway he doesn’t go through
again. but he’s always the first to look at her
instagram stories after that. she finds herself
waiting on the sofa that faces the door on
alcohol-lulled nights but to no avail.