In the jurisdiction of the one-bedroom apartment, I am the singular subject; we make oceans in the shower, harvest the bounty in the kitchen, cavort in the soft plains of the bed. In my wake, I leave dirty dishes, used towels, things I can’t carry; in her wake she leaves sweet chaos in my mind. Though she makes no marks on my skin, I can feel her touch as I’m walking in the sunshine. Back in her kingdom, she straightens and sweeps what I’ve left; while my mind remains in disarray, covered in traces I don’t want to wash away.
Personally, I don’t really like that. But I think I could probably make a better one later.