I sat with two empty cups on the small white table. One was called yours. The other had no name.
Yours, I placed the way you last left. Perhaps it memorizes the silence. The air kept your absence close. Dust was putting on its weight.
The other I eventually filled with morning light from the window, then poured it onto the table to see what would be coming.
It ran, found the pale veins of the wood, sank into the seams of the surface, would not stay the shape of a cup.
All afternoon, something in the room was happening.
Light from the cup kept moving on the wall, the ceiling. Greens were peeking their heads out from their pots. The pencil shortened itself one by one against my hand.
