By Shir Livne

I lead you down my stairs and
open the door into blanket night. Lean
forward and feel you
slipping past me, or my
hands catching a snag in space. Maybe
pretend a whole week has passed
that we’ve been standing here
reaching into each other’s palms and
living on that small circle
our thumbs can turn in, the mailman
slipping letters into our pockets.