Think me mad.
I pour milk upon the counter
and dip my fingers over it.
I dab delicate perfume into a velvet pillow
and lay my head down not to sleep,
but for the experience.
I look to my left
and smile at the air beside me.
Think me mad.
I speak gently to the walls
and pause to hear the reply.
I buy kick-knacks in twos
and keep the second in a special drawer.
I detail poems of pristine love and longing
and leave them to be found in the house
of which I am the only resident.
Think me mad.
I pour the milk to watch it spread
and edge and cascade
in the color and way of your skin.
I dab perfume into velvet to remember
how it was to lay with you.
I smile at the air because, to me,
you are always there
and that is worth smiling about.
Do you think me mad?
I converse with walls as I imagine
that you stand between they and I.
I buy trinkets in twos to always have
a gift ready that was chosen
with you in mind.
I leave love poems around the house
on the chance that we might both, one day,
call it home.
Surely I am mad.