Saint Valentine

I won you at the carnival while trying to win a poster of a cat wearing a suit. It’s that you keep saying you’re tired makes me want to weep. You won’t sleep when I ask, You wish something was yours, We are poor and I braid your soft hair. From our rooftop our eyes are turned not upward, but to the lit windows of the pastel building across the street. A man has been sitting at the window for hours looking one way down the street. I get warmth from your pale fingers as we huddle beneath one shawl beneath the green and slanted moon.