Listen—sometimes I forget where to put the x's on checks. I still pat my empty pocket with the hand not holding the keys. I am still relieved to see the butter knife cantilevered on the edge of the sink when I get home. Somehow I thought in the depths of my day that the crows would have gotten to it by now.
I am still practicing personhood. I am still finding my own way to pack a suitcase: roll the t-shirts, stacked close-packed like lumber, then folded flat the sweaters alternating like bricks in the most efficient way to maximize permutations. Why aren't clothes ever just clothes? The problem is the answer: people grow.
I can count to thirty to nudge my breath back onto the tracks but I still can't yet know that falling in love is not falling asleep— you don't get there by pretending.
Think of the moment you realize you'll miss someone when she leaves. Imagine stacking packages onto the conveyor belt at the store when you tap your pocket and feel the memory of your wallet waiting on the counter. Do you refill your cart and shuffle retrograde through the aisles, watching your feet, putting everything back? Do you look up at the cashier and just ask? I am still learning what to do with you. I am still laying down the track. I am gripping the edge with my toes while leaning over—