Imaginary Friend

I slept with my window open last night.

The snow melted and seeped into my pile

of laundry. My clothes wet and cold and

smelling of mold. It’s almost like when I was five

and I would peel back the plaid kitchen wallpaper

looking for the small light feeling the grit between

my fingers that built a city underneath my nails.

It was the smell of plaster and my hands peeling back just

enough to find a friend who my eyes at five

never got to know. Instead I look towards that

small light today that forever was the snow.