I have finally bought the house.

You are my best friend, she said,
and we were, but the "my" she mentioned
was not all the soul floating around in her brain.
There were dark patches I could not actively
befriend just because
I could not find them. 

There was no trace of the pools in the world of "My"
that reflected and conformed, as we agreed to be distinct people,
because only followers change for others. 

Reflections are beautiful, mirrors are useful.  Caves she boarded up as well,
like a homeowner paints over nail holes before showing, selling their house. 
They used to hold art,
but I cannot see them.  I see mountains, and I can draw
extremely accurate topographical maps, I can list plants
and campgrounds
and I know when the sun rises and sets.  These are things I know in her. 

Some things I don't yet:  cracks and perennialy leaky faucets, rodents and hidden attic windows by which the reading light
is the very best,
I had to save and save
and buy the house.  I owned them,
and she owned my dripping ceiling, squeaky air conditioning, splintering floorboards,
even though
they had yet
to be discovered,

and even though I will not live here forever,
a house you own
is a very special thing 
as is a best friend. 


-Citron