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.