Let me practise a candle’s
slow burn of friendship.
I will usher you into my home,
make you tea, my glasses will
stay on, for now.
Desert hospitality, to be honoured
as water saved and offered to the gods.
Spare room, never occupied,
now filled with the smell of sand and mint;
muffled knocks and sighs.
Wisteria scratches at the window
as I watch the road, your silhouette
now familiar, expected. Waiting
settles into unused folds around me.
My cells were merely resting,
waiting for what I hadn’t missed;
now softening and expanding with slow
company, like sand in a long-dried
riverbed after a drought has broken.
Living now in sunlight, rug fading,
mismatched shoes abandoned in the hall,
doors left ajar. Single lounge chair left
outside for charity. Our home is here.