her bedroom door has a hole where the knob’s supposed to be.
there’s an old dishrag rolled up and stuffed into the spot so
she can tug the door closed behind her,
(at least, that’s what her mother would say), but
she keeps it open, she hates it any other way
because she knows the truth about rooms:
things always get stuck, they pile up,
not long lost socks or half-filled midnight water cups,
but the lingers of rusty wind chime laughs,
breaths of traded whispers and twined fingers,
Dollar Tree posters proposing Homecoming pairings,
screaming, swearing, ex-boyfriend-sweatshirt wearing
sorts of things, washed in the constellationed haze of
the glow-in-the-dark stars she hand-picked
and sketched on her ceiling. 

she purposefully cracks the windows and leaves the door yawning
cranks the ceiling fan up until
its pawning itself off as a helicopter, because she figures
the throwback Thursdays will flit and flutter their way out;
maybe she doesn’t like to remember, doesn’t need to think about
all the stolen winterlove Decembers
and i’ll miss you Septembers
that remind her of how many times the clock hands have made
trips around their globe, while she’s stayed sitting in the same
misleading paradise of her lukewarm hourglass sands,
moving back over the same squares of unintentional board games
she didn’t exactly know she was playing, instead of checking back
on her high school heart she assumed was just weighing her down,
so she doesn’t take it seriously, not really, until it catches
her off guard again when they sew together, a backyard tangle,
fingertips drawing tangents of sweet sunfire through
her starred angles, but even with all the heat she thinks
his voice sounds like the river.

if she could, she’d shut the door,
to keep any of him from leaking out,
but without walls to hold them in
she settles for dipping once more
back under the water.