For heart-work, soul-work, the work of building and sharing a life. We two might be workaholics, but loving you requires no work at all.

To hold the entire history of everything. Something more sacred than just survival. “It’s the least I can do,” she thinks, “While You Are Out.”

To perhaps ensure for them something more sacred than survival.

She could find glimmers of joy in this ephemeral life.

She noted the fallacy of permanence in a world where everything ends and desired that kind of permanence all the same.

But time seeps in around shame’s edges.

We read magazines and the glass of wine in my hand refills itself thanks to the magical properties of women gathered in a room.

The plurality of their lives, I think, trying to cast a line to a person, place, or thing I can claim for myself.

The last time you see someone is never the last time you see them. The empty space a person leaves behind retains heat; a retina will preserve a face for later.