It has been seventeen days.
If my cat notices that you are gone,
she does not show it,
but she has taken to sleeping
on your side
of the bed.
I had coffee with a stranger.
It is too soon and he is too cynical,
and unlike you, does not know
how I shape my fingers
to hold a pencil, what colors
I will not wear, what things
make my voice
go soft.
I notice.
I'm sorry that we painted your bedroom
together. That must be hard to look at.
All I had to do was move around
some furniture.
I still love you.
I see my mother in the shape of my face
when I am drunk, when my makeup settles
into the creases underneath my eyes,
when I tire of being a good person,
or whatever this is.
Say I am able to cover my body
in chrysanthemums. Say that I am able
to forget you.
It's not about beauty or fluidity.
It is because of you
that I knew home,
once.
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