on the couch, i sit sipping cold coffee from a ceramic cup i bought at the discount store. before i knew you, and life was filled more with pills for pains than cocks for coffee mugs. this is an ordinary day. filled with the curls of your hair between my fingertips and slow moving moments. of which i have seen me into a lot lately. i sit quiet still on the couch and stare to steel the memory. to shudder click.

on the lowest shelf of the bookcase next to the front door where we drop our keys when we arrive home from work or the super market or playing in the snow there's a cardboard box. half spoken letters from before when i knew you:

FRO
UNIVERSITY
DISTRIBUTI
11030 S. LAK
CHICAGO, ILL

you don't know that i know. that
inside is a clear curvy vase meant for flowers. stuffed full to overflowing with coins tossed from the bottoms of things.

we swap. shift. switch. and hold.

like hostage pocket change.
change.
change.
change.