An empty cigarette pack in the garbage can under the kitchen sink.
Half drunk glasses of water, mugs of instant coffee.
A black phone charger, snaking lazily out of my laptop on the desk.
Soft gray sneakers under the coffee table.
Your clothes, and your scent, draped over the couch arm, where you must have left them this morning: “…designedly dropped, bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners” (Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”).
* * *
And all this, for me, this small collection, is a series of reminders, saying:
You are real.