We never really considered the possibilities
of the attic. After three months, after four drinks,
we went up there.
Treasures, left-overs of a life we
imagined into being. You, squeezing into
a four year old's pink shorts, and you,
wrapping up in a women's fur coat,
you look like a russian hooker, and you two,
let go of that vintage backpack before it breaks,
and me, look at me,
my breasts breaking out
of a pale yellow school uniform.
Does that satisfy our fantasies?