We like it when the windows steam up and the street lights fall in puzzled patterns across the pavement. We fall into mindful reveries over crumpled napkins and contemplate love’s cosign in an arc across the city. An arc of fuzzy light running away.
We like the floors silent, the doors well-oiled, our homes not far from anything. I’ve been painting in the kitchen, lining up two planes of color at the corner. The cat is at the window, by the coffee tins, cautious and tense.
Hours in my room, a book on my chest, un-remembering what I read, unaware of what I think. I like it when the room loses its shape at the end of the day, when nothing is broken or lost between the world and myself. All is sense and indefinite oneness.
In time I take myself back and bend in thoughtful doubt over a number on the nightstand. Will time allow anything more?
This doesn’t explain why it happens at all. Days passing, unrelated – a vial of sand miles from the sea.