Like life, you kept finding your way through my walls despite how many times I squished you nudged you onto paper mail to leave you out in the harsh winter air, where confused you wondered what happened to the warmth of a home that once housed your black-red body. You looked at me with curiosity the other day as I was about to sweep you away. You crawled along the top of my couch, and when I approached you turned your body, antennae, and zigzagged legs at me as if you knew what was coming. In a funny way you give my days shape consistency in my daily motions meaning I am not creative in how I get rid of you from my empty flat always with guilt and a pinch of remorse because you are there during lonely nights in the vents, hiding in the windowsill, always available like morning light to spring me from my longing, to wake me into something just beyond the outline of my well-known interiorities.