Waiting for the plumber to arrive, I am doing fussy things, pruning the lavendar wintering on the windowsill, stacking the books I have promised to read, filling the old heavy glass milk bottle serving as a water carafe by the bed. I dislodge a piece of paper with my handwriting on it. It says:

The spaces between words
You were never a back-looker,
I always was, greedy for one more
precious image, if only just the
back of your head.