My Cardboard Balcony

Here We Are by Belinda Roddie Here we are, in a darkened hotel room, our arms around each other like the coils of the mattress beneath us. Through the gloom of another smoky night, we are foils to one another, contrasts in the sparse light, contradictory in every way - from our height to our eyes to just how harsh my voice grates and how soft the words you say are. Coarse paired with rough isn't quite as smooth as one might hope, and yet, you hold me still, your palms flat on my shoulders as the roof above us rumbles, and the window sill shakes from the nearby train that rumbles by. We'll stay here 'til tomorrow, you and I.

Samantha didn't need the nightlight on after she turned nine years old, but somehow, I always think she was somewhat afraid of the dark. She didn't leave her room much when the sun had set, even when she was a teenager. If she hung out with friends, it was in the afternoon or inside, where the lamps were bright and the whole house hummed with glowing activity.