The past few days,
walking and sitting fill me with an ache
that insists there’s something quite wrong
with my walking and sitting when they’re not done by your side
in comfortable conversation.

It’s the kind of ache that makes me want to steal your pots,
pans, and clothes to sleep with them.
I don’t.

I don’t cry about it either.
But if I were someone else with this sensation,
I’d do both.

Of course,
if I were someone else,
I wouldn’t be in this situation to have you exactly as I do,
to miss you exactly as I miss you in the first place.

And so swells my depth of happiness
to be sad me
and to resist stealing
your pots and pans.