I lined up all of my teacups along the window’s edge. I used to think they were so pretty. The curtain is drawn, so their colors are muted. I don’t have the energy to open it, to let the sunshine in.

Why is it so wrong to sit in the dark and in the must and the dust? I’m in good company to stew in my grief. I wouldn’t dare taint the sunlight with my sadness. 

My beeswax candle sits at the end of the bookshelf. You know the one. I’m thinking about reaching for it. Just thinking. I could spark its light. I’m sure it wouldn’t mind sharing.

But it’s too soon for that. Much too soon. I prefer things this way. I like my little home. It surrounds me like a soft cocoon, my circular house.

Everything is the way I need it to be because most of my things came from you.

Your paintings cling to the wall from another time. The time our time coincided. How rare to have known you in this speck of the universe in this speck of a place.

On the other hand, our paths were always meant to cross—ancient comet travelers placed just so.

Maybe today I will try to finish my tea before it gets cold. Maybe if I can do that, just that one thing, I can untangle my feet from the floor.