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.