I think I feel you rest your hand on my knee.
The neighbor makes breakfast for her dinner;
and, my flat smells like the last time I was in your home and you made toast.
Heyoka thinks of Tulpa.
Æ whispers: I miss him, too.
The previous tenant left crystals on the sill of each window and a geode in the cabinet under the sink, along with strange, laminated sheets of paper bearing strings of seemingly arbitrary numbers and strange affirmations written in broken, American English.
I choose to not disturb the relics.
The clock on the stove is incorrect;
yet, it reads 11:11 the moment after I sign the final leaf of a new lease, the landlord leaves, and I find myself alone in this new space of mine.
I walk to buy lightbulbs.
I pass a dog carrying the leash in its own mouth.
And, I feel, simultaneously, not old enough yet too old to please you.
And, though the sun returned this morning, it cannot warm the air.
And, I suddenly feel like a silly girl because I never get cold.
My heater is off.
My windows are open.
The overhead, bedroom fan spins.
Stirring the air.
Swirling the vapour of my exhalations.
I loathe sucking my own exhaust fumes.
An unuttered question yells at me as “the old man upstairs” rambles about and creaks my ceiling, his floor.
I begin fidgeting with my fingers after setting down my pen.
My orchid’s blooms burst open, pridefully, last night.
Two bulbs remain,
still and clasped tight,
with a promise of what is to come.