I am still able to speak the way I dream,
a stream of abstract, fully relevant thought.
I’ve only forgotten your name.

Your face is still concrete as my routine, my feeding
of the dog, the bird’s chirp from the clock
above the kitchen window,

noticing the way the leaves brush
against the glass. I am still able to think of time
as linear, to remember
what I ate for breakfast, to think of breakfast
as a morning activity. I am still

able to think of love as a verb
when remembering faces, I still laugh
at the same jokes.

Yet I don’t understand why the days have changed,
voices are calloused; people
move quickly as though I’m a thought to be forgotten.

The knobs on the stove have been removed.