Spring. Greenwich Village loft. Stripped to its bones, naked and quiet, just as it was that late December day when we signed on two keys to the same lock. Late-night Artichoke slices on cardboard boxes, stacked on undressed floors, unfurling well-intended plans of pup-proof couches and Restoration Hardware credenzas, and what level of IKEA hacking were we able to stomach. Turns out, it wasn’t much.

Oh, pretty girl. You were always pretty. Your eyes, small and smirked toward the sun, emitting the sparkle of the moon. The slippy milk that envelops your bones and spills richness over your canvas. But your light was dimmed with the dust of another's pain. So you scorched your skin, and you stained your face to beam the right color for someone else's eyes. Oh, pretty girl, let them dance in your moonlight.