the architecture of separation

it honestly feels like there was never a time when he didn't live here - when i didn't have to keep my toiletries in the bag to save space. what seems like a few minutes ago, he was here and i didn't have to plan anything or wait for anything: i just lived it. now everything is an iceberg tip. the smell on a used towel. a pair of unfamiliar socks which turned up, clean, in my finished laundry basket. supermarket-brand soap.

i want to keep empty the drawers he was using. i want to conserve his detergent. i want no-one to use his key ever again.


this is a relationship in palimpsest.