of our life. These days, I must be both me and
her. When our cat sneezes, I wipe her face and carefully save a q-tip swabbed
with her nostril’s muddy imprint. For the vet, I tell my lover, if it was the common cold,
it wouldn’t last this long. I buy things she loves
for myself – a sliver of truffle tremor, black garlic, an old le creuset saucepan –
and before work, like she would, I mist the plants with our tea tree concoction, inspect
the soft joints for the fuzz of bugs. Love letters spill
down the narrow stairs as I leave. I think I would like nothing
to miss her like I do, hence this tenderness, hence my hands smudging
myself. Each time a key turns somewhere in the world, our house turns
towards the door.