tonight is quiet but for the piano, but for the possums as they play with their babies in the ceiling. i am in the domed light of this room, under its auspicious glow, reading of darker places than these. somehow there are only two of these weeks left, somehow all of this days have passed into passage. i have a pattern now, hexagonal shapes that fit together unfaded, the way my days are navigated. the upwards thrust of the morning and the chill in my fingers, the crook of my elbow straight down sydney road and the hill the hill, the bit before the bike path and the trucks. i have my desk, the two of them, and the coffee and its grounds. the date and almond balls and cemetary road as the vital line that links me to places. i have been mapping things out, piecing them together, in an awkward joining of shapes that aren't quite conjoined. here is north, here is west. here is the line that joins them. i know the shape of the sky though, and the tiles on the wall. i know the way i can find things, the way i can remember them. i know that there are things i miss. i think about the red light behind the shape of your door, the sounds that might be filling that space, and i think of all the absence there, that you are building. i think of the bittering of tea at the end of the tall glass and cupcakes and simplicity and i am glad i am home. i am glad i have found it. i am glad it is at the tips of my fingers.