April 15, 2012
Itís the cleanest place Iíve ever seen. Not one thing out of place, not even in the kitchen.
And you wouldnít know she owned a cat, least of all two, until you saw them sprawled.
All of it, like a dream, or a cloud, a drifting sense of lost senses the moment I come through the door.
Soft but not too soft.
Like a biosphere in which all the elements are pre set, to some idea she has in the back of her mind, leaving me to figure out where exactly I fit into the scheme.
She knows how I ache to fit in even when we both know I am too imperfect, a flawed piece of furniture with some scrape or nick turned against the wall to keep from sight, a flaw I canít cover up even though it is hidden deep inside of me.