And.

I would leave. I would leave my potted plants. I would leave my rose bush on the

first step of my duplex with its roses pink and yellow and as big as my hand. I would

leave my husband. I would leave my husband probably with the rose bush. I would

leave my photos of the people I do not know, though, I would like to keep them and

the photos of the people I do know. I would leave my cat, but she is old and has very

few teeth and I know that you like cats, even old ones, so I have told her I would not

have to leave her, and I do not like to break promises. I would leave my other

promises. to me, to my lover, to the air. And I would leave and we would find

ourselves drinking coffee over newspapers. drinking coffee over morning classic

movies. drinking juice over Anne Carson’s essays. drinking orange juice over an

itinerary to a village in Italy that I told you I would like to see fully, being a child and

sick the last time I was there. drinking coffee and juice over ourselves. And I would

be uncomfortable. for now. forever. for a moment. And I would be in love.