Girl in a coat
I’ll take off my coat
if you decide to let me in again.
I’ll leave it in the corner,
on the floor,
to wrinkle and take in carpet smells
while we tend to other things.
I won’t look through the window for days
if you decide to stand outside my door.
I’ll crumb up the sheets
then fall asleep with the sink full,
the laundry undone,
the faucet leaking
rhythmic as breath.
I will sleep past noon.
I’ll neglect the garden for a time
and it will grow wild,
creeping into the neighbor’s yard
and leaving blossoms over the fence.
Its perfume will catch for miles.
I’ll take the door off its hinges
if you decide to stand outside it,
so you and the world
can come and go as you please.
Amanda Bloom is a writer from Connecticut. Her writing has been published in The Atlantic, Thought Catalog, and Wand’rly. Read more of her work at amandabloom.com.