The girl who lives
in the house like mine
with the sitting room like mine
and the coffee cup like mine
and the cat like mine
(in my imagination)
and the carpets like mine
and the sofa like mine
(Ercol, again, slight wishful thinking)
and whose presence I have
every time I ran past
her house found
strangely reassuring
(you could see straight in the window
until she frosted the glass)
for the last eight years
has moved.

I am bereft.
Who am I?