There, amid kind domesticity, I’m reminded that I was once a human and loved like a human. There, a glance from you amid the banter tells me all I need to know. There, I have no interest in your husband, who goes to sleep early while we read the tarot, and I refuse to take it seriously, and I obsessively repeat the draw (and again and again, the Devil stalks me, although I don’t believe). Cucumber chamomile rye whiskey kambucha. There, we eat bad pizza, but I don’t say that it’s bad. I’m walking in your mirror, one a ghost of the other. Should I have been born a woman?
Somehow, we see each other. Somehow, there is communication amid blindness.
You should visit my hovel some time. I can show you the lower depths.