What might you be doing now,
tangled in the sofa
plotting constelations in the spaces
for the paintings yet to be hanged.

What might you be doing now,
turning off the lights in the living room,
perhaps trying on a new dress,
planning a get-away, to see the sea.

And I'm sharpening moons, lost in the hotel,
finding your cuddles in the overnight bag.
And I'm looking for you in the blue bathroom mirror,
in the weary clothes of the closet.

What might you be doing now,
dozily watching tv,
watching my peace and my portraits,
the habit of sleeping in the left side.

What might you be doing now,
cursing the light, the first sun,
beautiful with your puffy eyes,
watering the plants, all the memories.

And I'm removing dry leaves from the bed,
dreaming myself with you under water.
And I remind myself that I forgot to hang out the clothes,
wondering what might you be doing now.