You sit and wait and tell yourself this is good.
A classmate called this fertile darkness.
You watch your cat try to nose open
the closet door, and help her when she fails.
You light tall candles in a gold candelabra
and the right one crackles for a few seconds.
You think this must be proof of a god
or maybe your great-great grandmother saying hello.
Now the whole table shakes
like your Grammie’s hands.
You stare at the wicks for too long
so when you blink you see pink flames.
You find a cat hair on your shirt
hold it to the fire
and watch it disappear.
You dance in wool socks on wood floors and listen
to your neighbors’ action movie through the wall.
You write in the pink flowery notebook your dad gave you
as a high school graduation gift, inscribing his approval.
At 24, you’re on the last empty page,
the rest are filled with yourself.
Today you write with green ink.
Your cat whines her hunger.
You close the notebook and think
I’ve never been alone.