The Weight of the Door

Punctual as always,
Layla arrives, and I feel her fingers warm against my wrist.
Our kiss holds the metal bite of impatience.
I know the fault is mine. The office lingers on her skin.
Soon, I follow her upstairs.

We share the same dark eyes.
Our hair is long and swinging.
Fifteen hundred years ago, her tribe
likely fought mine over a dead camel and wrote golden poetry.

How many afternoons have we swallowed in my inherited house?
She slides her dress over her knees with the neatness of a girl
who worries about being judged.
The thin sweep of fabric, such subtle magic,
impatiently, I shed my skirt.

Closed-door heat, yesterday’s perfume, bodies pressed together.
Her heart turns the key while mine braces for her leaving.

I wear her necklace.