These are the sweet things I hold near: how you danced when you put your coat on. When you burnt four batches of scrambled eggs in a row [each slam of the trash can lid louder, matching the bubbling of my laughter]. Standing in line for coffees across the street. You always walked me to the bus. Your socks, uneven heights, half way up your calf or bunched around your ankle. And in the summer, we slept on the floor of an empty apartment, not a single piece of furniture or food, just a single sleeve of bagels.