What is in a week?
It was only a week ago, what is in a week?
A week is the daily stream of rain down the window or the deep descent to the train, the repeated tread of the escalator, leaves collecting at the bottom.
A week ago you were here, and we sat outside, looking for spots on the roof that weren’t wet.
A week ago I lay on your shoulder, which felt unusual and fleshy. I am surprised how any part of you can feel foreign.
I lay back and gently poured memories into your ear, none of which I remember now. I could make up what I told you, plucking memories from the intricate spiders web of our relationship, but I won’t. I imagine my words crawling up your neck, into your ear and through your mind.
A week ago you placed your hand on my shoulder as you read, pausing everything. Everything stood still, poignantly, even though what you were reading was trivial and fleeting. I felt the tips of your fingers heavy on my shoulder.
A week ago you left, your quick lips full and warm.
I imagine you on the bus and you imagine me where you left me, you told me so.
I imagine your ascent and a week ago I heard your voice quick and full and sweet on the phone.
It is a week ago and I imagine you are still here.