After the appointed fuck, I wander
the house barefoot, climbing up, peering
out every window until I find you
in the attic skylight to the right
of my desk, your light not blue but milky
white, filtered through a caul. Your body
is pale, full-bodied, but scarred. You’re old,
I suppose, a sterile rock. I sit
in the dark and watch as we both turn.
You, a helium balloon whose string tugs
at the fist of a fussy child who might
look up at the sky and let go.