The dip in the sofa

The sofa keeps your shape the way a glove does: effortlessly, with no intention of giving it back.

The left-hand cushion, sagging on a slant; the armrest, worn smooth where you rested the book and the cup, both at once, against all prudence.

I sit on my side, which is still mine, and leave yours free. Not out of grief: out of habit, which is the body's way of going on setting the table when there is no guest.

Some day I'll buy a new sofa. It will arrive firm, symmetrical, without memory. It will take years of sitting to teach it who you were.