We exchange houses,
and wandering your hallways,
I learn about your soul.
A rescued plant grows to the heavens,
tapping on your walls and ceiling.
I tell it you are buying land — a lot of land — for trees.
An oasis of your son’s tropical fish – half a fish shop – occupies your garage,
each tank with careful instruction on how to keep them happy.
They swim to greet me, fearless.
A book I wrote sits on top of the stack beside your bed.
Another, my kind of book, stills me back to reading.
A bowl of perfectly ripe fruit, a fresh loaf of bread,
new milk, vintage wine, car keys.
All the little things you left for me
suddenly feel big.
The soft bed sheets – the expensive ones you can’t put in a washing machine — and how you asked me if I liked your bed?
Keep the balcony door open at night – you can hear the forest and look at the moon, you said.
Bliss sneaks up on me,
but you’re not here.
Am I in bliss with myself?
Maybe
that’s the exchange.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Nadia Valko on Unsplash
