At nineteen

At nineteen, our lives filled up small wooden dorms,
our digs a past convent, all stained glass of fishes,
and an old airy chapel where we did our stretches –
I don't know how much of my softness you saw.
We had pudding each night with thick custard or cream,
I'd sleep stuffed and angsty, then wake to loud squirrels.
I wore awkward blouses to candlelit dinners –
at your tie and blazer, I would burn up with need.
I'd written a story the previous summer:
two girls fall in love on the south coast of France.
The earnest narrator had my curls and inked hands
and sometimes I wondered if I could just become her.
Her lover, I gave olive skin and warm wit –
she was so much like you, who I hadn't found yet.