Everything is borrowed space, the space I occupy the space left behind. Who was here before? Who had a similar view of the garden?
The house is in another part of the city, with a nearly identical room that can contain the both of us. Inside are objects that can be used in our own murder: a pair of scissors on a stack of folded napkins, the knives in the kitchen, a spool of floss in the downstairs bathroom, the poison under the sink. Inside, the living says, I woke up and saw a stranger standing at the foot of my bed.
We leave the couch and make plans for dinner, surrounded by the things that belong to us. Here, a window, a lace curtain. Here a table, a chair, a view of the garden. A plate of apples, a cup of coffee heavy with our reflection. Outside, night falls, and I touch your hand, and we believe we are safe, we believe we have all the time in the world.
From the collection Maps, first-prize winner for poetry in the 61st Palanca Awards; first published in 2011 in Blinds: PANTAS Tomo IX