Remember when I thought we needed two doors between? That two doors would be a sealant on our separate little scrap lives so that love could not tarnish our own heirloom silverware. Two doors and two beds and only a few nights spent saturated in euphoric companionship. In your presence I felt boundless but I couldn’t get straight the arithmetic, couldn’t loosen my grip on the abacus. Mysticism and flowering advances versus reason. Strip me first of desire and leave convictions and axioms intact. Two doors meant keeping safe all the parts of me that wanted, privately, only to be held, healed, hoped for. Two so that twice I’d have to weave through a vacuum chamber where I was at one end with myself and on the other, with you. Even now I think there’s value in the thrill of unlocking doors, leaping over gullies, gaining purchase on tree bark knowing you await me in a spill of leaves. Tumbling upwards and upwards into parts of the troposphere not yet shown to me through love or care, despite all love and care previously known, kept close, wrapped away. Behind my door. And that door and the next were a necessary instalment to protect against exposure, whatever that meant. Don’t grow tired of me, don’t grow frustrated. Please, never bored. If that had meant disparate kitchens, separate living rooms, mirrored pillowcases, I would have owned it outright our through installations of quiet mortgages. But the folly of my conjecture lies in you and your unrelenting permissiveness of effusion. You are the sun-cut space on the hardwood where I sit cross-legged and think and am alive, all my misgivings tucked away with intention but behind lockless robin’s egg cabinets. The duvet we both tug at stretches infinitely at either corner and you whittle room for my daydreams at your dozing belly. Two doors not needed but respectfully granted if ever. Two doors, I don’t think, would make me happy, besides. Two human spaces, more like, and one home.