This is how we remember—

Bones and bruises are not a home.

You said you could see
a billion houselights like stars
and I shifted my weight between my feet,
balancing the frigidness across my toes.

There’s no silence quite like going to bed
with someone you only used to love.
I sleep on my right side because it’s supposed to be good for my heart,
and find African animals in the shadows on the walls
while you mutter in your sleep.

Soft light the color of churning butter,
the sounds of insects we don’t know the names of.

In the morning it will rain.
The dog will muddy the wooden floors.
I’ll make honey ginseng tea and forget to take out the tea bag
until it’s cold and too strong.

A field mouse collects seeds in the graying fields somewhere.