Inertia is a strange property of matter. When you leave, for example, the air retains your body’s warmth for a while, the way the sand retains all night the sad warmth of the sun. When you leave, to continue the same example, my hands persist in their caress, even though there is no skin to stroke, only the carcass of memory decomposing in the stairwell. When you leave, you leave behind an invisible you adhering to the smallest things: maybe a hair on the pillow, a glance tangled up with the strings of desire, a tiny crust of saliva in the creases of the sofa, a molecule of tenderness in the well of the shower. It isn’t hard to find you: for me love works as a magnifying-glass.