it’s called animism, she explains
her eyes wandering as she tells me
how everything has a soul
the mixtape i made her
skids, skimming to the next song

her house is all things
a history of her, scattered
i even grow to love the dust
in her window sills
it’s proof she was there

i go home with two worn books
thinking of all the hands
that have cracked their spines
i ask her, are you sure it’s just one?