It was discovered in tinfoil and lace: the way
your hands would softly knead dough, clumsy
gently across a kitchen counter
I once called “mine”.
And you, ghost, who follows
room to room, asks in wisps of smoke
from the stovetop
if I will ever feel “better”. This is distraction.
Your nose turns up as the timer reaches “ready”
and it is but a sound that escapes your mouth
but never reaches my ear. We were decades of footsteps,
a cold draft from the window you refused to repair.
In Autumn we exchanged letters. They sit at the font of my intention.