I can sense them, his old lovers, his old leavers, their cloves and smoke thick in threaded carpet, grease stains browning on unwashed paint. Other tenants, other times. Most pass through this station, moving up or down the home-hierarchy to new mortgage or penitentiary. I stay. His transience suits me; I never want more. He can only be rented, like everything else, really, pimped for profit. But I treat him well, I think, much better than the others. Every time I open the door, I tell him I’m lucky. I tell him he’s beautiful. Mine, but still his. I’m not jealous. He can think of Them when he’s with me; who am I to demand? I love him. He compares me to others, I know. They weren’t so dependent, so needy. He is who he is, and that’s okay. I have no claim, pay another for his company, sure that he won’t remember. Sure that I am not the last. That I’m grateful to have made his acquaintance.
There are books. Great books. Here.
And poetry. Always poetry. Here.