So many times I’ve looked at you or something close to that, stood by the sink with the tap still running, turning the day over in my hands like a coin. I’ve even painted rocks for no good reason, left them on the windowsill like proof that I was here, like if I stayed still enough the ache would learn my shape. I keep the kettle on too long. The line on the clock drifts past six. Your jacket hangs on the back of the chair with the sleeves half folded in on themselves, and I let it stay there because moving it feels rude, like changing the locks on a memory. So many times I’ve looked at you and not said the thing I came to say. I’ve bitten down on it at the crosswalk, under the grocer’s buzzing sign, with a bag of pears knocking against my knee. I’ve swallowed whole what should’ve been small enough to carry. There’s a dent in the hallway wall from the week we moved the dresser. There’s a mug with a chip in the rim. There’s dust on the record player and a bus passing slow out front, its engine low and tired, like it knows this street by name. And I keep thinking maybe love is just a room you keep returning to, lights on, shoes by the door, someone humming in the other room while the faucet ticks itself dry. Maybe that’s all. Maybe that’s everything. So many times I’ve looked at you I’ve lost count by the time the kettle starts. I stand there, half in the kitchen, half elsewhere, with my sleeves rolled up and my hands empty, waiting for the right word to come home. And if it doesn’t, I’ll still leave the rocks on the sill, still watch the afternoon slide off the glass, still know your face the way a street knows rain, the way a window keeps the shape of a season.
