We pushed our twin beds together as soon as we reached Vienna.
The Viennese wind filled the room and fluttered
the long white curtains full like long white balloons.
We didn’t close the shades, left the lights glaring from the ceiling—
I think we wanted Vienna to know we were there.
We piled on the make-shift bed and for one evening
pretended we would always be there
in that room with the smell of Austrian cigarettes and rain.
fiction poetry "fact" photography