Hugging on a rather unimportant street corner
on a commonly grey San Francisco day, the pale ocean eyes
and a heartbeat that makes me glad I am short.
I have heard you have rearranged your room, which
stirs the fog in me as the warmth of a known, earthy memory —
of being in that geography — condenses against the cooling distance.
A new bed. I want to jump on it, laughing, and bury my head
in the remaining pillows that hold your head.
Here, the aqua sheets are reluctantly washed and I
discarded a hair I found that I inexplicably noted as yours.
But the dry yellow flowers are still beside my bed.
The toothbrush remains in the bathroom cupboard.
The birthday card speaks from the refrigerator door.
Inside are the spicy condiments and icky kimchi and
super tart yogurt I bought for you idling.
These are the little things.
