No Smaller Love

One more minute, I said, and the minute built a room. It hung our coats,

There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—

I woke before you and did nothing about it. The radiator ticked. Your shoulder rose and fell.

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget

We don't say I love you anymore. We say: your phone is at eleven percent. We say: I picked up the thing

I write you letters in my head on the bus, in the shower, in the three seconds