Your snow puddles still on the floor,
I knew you.
My home’s favorite decoration.
As everyday as the old bump of paint
on my bathroom door.
It looks like a smiling moon.

Your familiarity dissolved
into something as foreign as road bends
in cities to which I haven’t travelled.
I knew you.
But I forgot your name.

I failed to remember your inhabitance
of my haven.
So I painted over my doors.
The ones you flagrantly disregarded
when you sidestepped our delicate love
and walked into early winter gales.
The ones I now remember to lock at night
and keep closed
in an order to keep numbing relations
outside.