I start with the paper lamp, harvest moon 
suspended over a table set for six. 
Burgundy crescents mark the table runner. 
My love catches my eye. We fold 
into each other, my leg slung over yours. 
Your lips scrape the laughter from my breath, 
warm and thick like molten raclette. 
 
In another world, two children, 
grubby, glowing and green-eyed, 
scrawl tiny houses on butcher paper
spread across a carved oak table. 
You swing one around, the other grabs my leg. 
"We're a fairground ride for hire," you grumble. 
On the mantle: a gosling feather, 
muddy bluebells and foraged morels
yearning for a slick of butter. 
 
Outside, lightning flashes. A cat curls
around my ankles, chasing steam
rising from the stovetop. Slow jazz hiccups 
through well-loved scratches on the vinyl.
I switch fluorescence for a candle's glow, 
and watch flames flicker against equatorial rain. 
 
In the last world, you sit on my couch, 
half-strangers brought together by remembering. 
I do the house tour: the heated toilet, 
the walk-in closet where my birthday silk scarf 
still hangs. We laugh over memories 
now distant enough to name. 
 
It is good to see you again.