I think of you, washing my face
I see you in my glass of juice
I hear you, crinkling my newspaper
I think of you, reading some letters

I know you, as I drop down, sinking into the plush couch
I think of you, sitting motionless at my computer
I sense you as I anxiously turn down the heat
I feel you and look through my face reflected in the window

I feel you, tying my shoes and ambling out the door into the open avenue
I think of you and glide past a private garden enclave, dotted with plastic cherubs
I hear you as my beaten sneakers tap and skip up the steps to the store, two at a time
I think of you as I take in the bookshelves draped in rows and rows of secondhand novels

I smell you, mixed with the warm brown scent of coffee; a mild, nervous moment of lavender, the hearty wood of café tables
I see you, quietly seated near the window, two hands on your coffee, shoulders slightly hunched, smiling softly, brightened by the noon sunlight
I feel you, two hands hugging your shoulders, your downy sweatshirt, smart little hands, your perfect cheek that I kiss, those lips
I know you, careful and happy, passing me a pear, looking down with a new, small smile and showing me your reading: love poems, giving a fleeting laugh, calling yourself a sap, romantic and I drink in every instance of you, ecstatic

I hear you in the shake of bells as I open the door to leave and watch you through the window
I feel you, your fingertips lightly drumming a goodbye against the reflective glass
I recognize you in the red glow of street-market mangoes, arrayed in wooden baskets
I think of you and wait patiently to cross the street

I see you in a graceful, dated streetlight
I think of you, rolling back my cotton sleeves
I feel you in the sunlight touching my neck
I think of you, and see an old man resting on a green bench

I feel you, gripping my door handle
I taste you in a square of chocolate
I see you in my tall, clean glass
I think of you, and turn on my reading light