The house we’d live in
would have a stepstool in the kitchen.
“You aren’t that tall, anyway.”
He would use it to reach the sugar for me.
I’d lift my finger dipped in honey
for him to taste.
These are the thoughts I used to have,
before I found a chipped blue mug in my chest
with the white underbelly exposed.
He held it in his hands
until he shoved it back
into my own.
I climb up a stepstool,
and place the mug on the shelf,
where it will stay next to the sugar.
He stands in a forest,
and looks up at the wood balcony against the sky,
and I am not there.
I hold my face in my hands,
gazing through my fingers,
recalling the memory of a house.