this hardy looking plant, sold to me as fortune magnet, is near moribund. only this tendril like shoot at its base shows resolve at life, straining towards the frosted glass of the bathroom window. the guy’s undershirt, brazenly white, hangs like an insolent specter from the hook i always reserve for my heavy bath robe. it’s not only now, but i’ve always been in this state of existential longing. something is always missing. squares of sun tile my bathroom floor, a spectacle at once breathtaking and agonizing for i realize i have no pets, no cats to lounge in them pools of light the way they always do.