I keep having lapses of memory
when I go to turn off my alarm
and realize it’s no longer across the room.
Sometimes, I can’t help but sit on my desk,
thinking about our last home
and the echoing laughter
and heated floors
and cat hair.
I miss our constant humming
and our visitors
and the silence.
I don’t want to call it
a fever dream,
not yet anyways,
but sometimes it feels unreal.
I miss us
cooking dinner together.
I miss us
when going to sleep at night.
I miss us
making tea in the morning.
Everything begins and ends,
but we are nowhere near
those extremes,
just existing in this fugue state
and waiting for the moments
we get together again.
So It Goes 