What belongs to her

I am terrified of the light fixtures
and the way their dimmed light
make her look because I know
the light hits

only my cheekbones and makes
my face look too sad.
Not in the way I can
romanticize, no,
not with my eyes
and the way they are
sunken in. This room
isn’t mine, and the wallpaper

mocks that, laughing along
with the chairs that fail
to hold me comfortably,
out of malice or impatience,
in this space where I have found
myself, but it belongs to her.