The phone that never charged

The broken door handle that dangled

The pillows that scattered

The little routine of it all 

It all being you and I’s life inside the two-hundred-square-foot apartment 

The apartment was an organism itself

Living, breathing, bending to our needs

And us to its

The dance we would do to get around each other

Sometimes a waltz, sometimes a chacha 

A game of Twister that only we knew the rules to

The little room could be a dining room living room gym 

Office bedroom all wrapped into one

Use a little creativity, they said 

It’s just like living in a tiny home, they doubled down 

The real elixir was our patience or, at least, effort thereof

We believed — we knew — that for a brief moment

For this fleeting season of life, this place was indeed ours

Our own niche, nook, cranny in the city

A city that was rebuilding, a city broken, changed

We were there — we were there in our tiny apartment watching 

My favorite memory was during the summertime 

Right after we got the keys 

Before we had air conditioning before we had a proper mattress

I spent the night there alone

You were still drinking at the time and would be out for hours

For once, just tonight, I couldn’t be bothered

Even though the air mattress was stiff and the air stifling 

Sweating, I stepped out onto our balcotini

That’s what we called our little wedge suspended over the trees

Only one person could fit at a time, and tonight, 

I was that lucky soul 

It was the kind of bohemian moment only experienced in this city

The kind that makes you crave the quiet crackle and deep inhale

That comes only from a cigarette

There were none to be found in our new home,

So I focused on what was around me

No New York City street is ever truly dark, but especially east eleventh 

To the right of my little perch was a glowing red sign

It illuminated east eleventh, and I imagine I wasn’t the only one 

Who lived on the street that felt like the sight of it signified 

Home 

The sign spelled the name of a popular bakery

A letter was out, but that didn’t matter 

Below me, people waited in the humidity

For the baked goods, ice cream, air conditioning 

With every swing of the door and chime of the bell

Coltrane’s syrupy melodies and scent of baking mixed with summer air

Wafted up, weaving through the tree branches 

To greet me and remind me that — for now — I was home