Six weeks, they tell me,
is just long enough to build a habit;
I listen and I act impressed.
The inference here, of course,
is that I will soon forget the old
while at the same time I create the new.
But what if these six weeks I am gifted now as a beneficence
remain instead filled with hungry glances to
your corner, to my seat, to your grotty rug
as I wait to see you there? Or packed with
awkward pauses at an open door
held ajar a single beat – a moment longer – than it ought to be
allowing you to walk through before I do?
Or the unweighted silence of my empty lap that does not
have you curled, determined, purring, ammonite-like upon my knee?
Because I loved you, I will still look for you;
and miss you in the places where you used to be.
Six weeks may build a habit, yes;
but will not teach me to forget you and what you meant to me.