It’s the cleanest place I’ve ever seen. Not one thing out of
place, not even in the kitchen.
And you wouldn’t know she owned a cat, least of all two,
until you saw them sprawled.
All of it, like a dream, or a cloud, a drifting sense of
lost senses the moment I come through the door.
Soft but not too soft.
Like a biosphere in which all the elements are pre set, to
some idea she has in the back of her mind, leaving me to figure out where
exactly I fit into the scheme.
She knows how I ache to fit in even when we both know I am
too imperfect, a flawed piece of furniture with some scrape or nick turned
against the wall to keep from sight, a flaw I can’t cover up even though it is
hidden deep inside of me.
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