Tonight it's just me and any one of those three choices - a bed so mine that the crest of my body is pressed deep into the mattress, the empty, dishonest walls of an old bungalow where I could curl up in a corner of one of the many vacant rooms, or here: burrowed into pure, warm comfort, a pool where our tributary veins run partially together, picking the peanut butter cups out of his Moose Tracks, dressed in an oversized PT shirt, my favorite. He isn't here but he is, he is everywhere in this room and the next and in the shower. In a few hours I'll climb a flight and a half of stairs and melt into sleep and it will feel like he's the big spoon because his essence lingers like a decadent flavor.
This is the last preview.
[all we can do is keep breathing.]