Morning glories are climbers. You plant them outside your window in spring and their leg-like tentacles will wrap their way around the frame, cover it and climb until you can’t remember what it was ever like without them. They’ve got a way of making a space their own, of forcing you to believe they were always there to begin with, that your space is much prettier now that they’re home.
You are like this for me. Curled around my memories, until it’s hard to recall if you were ever not there to begin with. Your voice bounces around like a bird stuck inside a bedroom.