I think about our old house and I can hear the creaks of our going up the porch steps and smell the autumn leaves, strewn like damp apple peels flapping everywhere. There are rotting newspapers among them, ink starting to run, startled on the ground as if they never got over the initial grasp and subsequent release, that flick of the inner wrist, from the teenage paper boy. I walk slowly through the lens of internal periphery and wonder what else is left in this house. The indents of our feet on the wood grain floors, how haphazard and tender are the ways our treads must still overlap there. Like our thumbprints and the small touches we engraved on one another, each cup of the chin or gentle nudge causing the nerves inside to singe. I miss how we used to relax on the porch in summer, swinging lazily, watching our molecules slowly dissolve in the summer heat and pass onto the other like a coke going flat. I miss the hours we would spend on the little iron bed, trying to etch ourselves into the other. We were just two breaths blown on a windowpane by a small child or an old man forgetting why, but how lucky we were to be on the same pane and to spread for one heated second onto one another.