your hair smells like junior high he said once– in passing. the room is square and white and full of trapped air– the cell inside a trumpet expiring. he pulls out pictures of when he was young. a girl with brown hair, his calm hips. the day open on a trampoline. once, i lost an earring in the sheets and found it sitting on his bureau. i picked it up and held it aloft, like an announcement. didn’t know if it was yours, he said. funny, i didn’t feel at all hurt by the comment. but i was young once and what did i know about love.