Despite my best efforts she continues to arrive at my door, valises in hand, no longer my love but a sentry. She says: Each morning when I meditate, my third eye singles you out. I won't take up much room, just a top shelf in your closet where I can peer down while you sleep. I want to make sure all your twitches have me as their source. I want to hold your consciousness the way a curved bottle reshapes water. My big blue car will constantly be parked along streets you pass, causing you to turn your head and consider what it would be like to be with me, drinking iced tea in a noisy dive, having a picnic with a barking dog wrapped around our ankles. I want to burrow into your psyche like a mole and live there, populate it with children whom I spontaneously produce, children who run rambunctious through your mind and color it against future lovers who might try to overstep me, as if that were even possible.