You were only
the second person
I understood how to love. 
I was naive– I still hadn’t learned
that love isn’t
bleeding out onto the card table
and showing everyone your hand;
that in order to win, 
you had to bluff.

And I came in like a hurricane and
tore apart the small space
you had just started feeling like you could call home. 
I asked for a room– you weren’t sure
you had any.

But I made myself a copy
of your keys and slept
at the foot of your bed until 
you finally started leaving
extra eggs in the frying pan for me
in the mornings. 
But you never were one for routine. 

You were a runner,
you said. You didn’t like to stay still. 
You could find home within yourself but
were too scared to rent out property
in anybody else. 

I told you I was looking 
for a tenant. 

When I finally started making an indent
in your mattress, 
you locked me out. 

‘It’s too risky,’ you said, 
‘this real estate game.’