When you arrived at my place
you sat on the bed.
I had no chairs; I ate standing
because no one ever came to me.
Dishes, forks, all in the singular.

For a week, I drank my coffee there
where you had sat
because your scent lingered.
I searched for it by its notes—
resin, perhaps musk, passion fruit maybe.
La recherche?
I asked you.
How did you know?

What wouldn’t a lonely woman do
to learn just a little about another,
without risking
buying chairs for the future,
only to have one remain
empty,
heavy
from the low atmospheric pressure,
just as the snow would scatter on the window
the last stainless-steel sparrows.