The place I love most is somewhere I haven't been.
There is light and empty spaces and monogrammed dish towels.
There is. a painting that almost captures the way
sunshine
made her eyes look like caramel.

I have dreamed of this place.
Where the phone never rings and parsley grows on the windowsill.
Where there are enough coats to fill their wrought-iron hangers.

I have dreamed
of this place
where she did not give up her consciousness.

I stepped on a bug.
It did not deserve to die.