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The sofa seems big when I  
sit on one end of it. The  
lamplight shadows where  
you used to leave watermark  
rings, and crumbly things, I  
pretend not much has changed,
wipe your seat with my feet, as  

though there aren’t two homes  
in place of one, or awkward  
info exchanges like we’re strangers,  
swapping vacation times with our kiddos.  
I pretend worlds weren’t switched  
seeking new relationships with my  
fingertips; missing you on this sofa, alone.
ursa
Written by ursa
Published
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