It depends on your definition

I entered her house

While she slept

I changed the floorboards first

One nail per night

I continued

Every bit of architecture

Till the same house

Was a different house

It was a gradual change

She never noticed it

Or maybe she just pretended not to

(She hid impressions behind her hair)

So I started to call during daylight

Working in the awake open

Sometimes I didn't leave at all

My labor was silent and separate

A ghost machine

I painted the whole place

I tossed everything overboard

And bought it all again

I answered her mail

And the door

When my work was done

I watched her bathe

She stared silent, too

In the cooling blank water

Waiting for something

To begin

Or end

V

V was a six foot two red head, born a twin. I knew her when she wandered. She had a high soft voice, like whispering above an airplane engine. She wore caramel lips and a clever smile. At times, she took so long to say hello you were left tilting with your mouth open, falling in to her neck, soft as ferns. She was always crashing relationships into shore, after which she’d pack a bag for elsewhere. Her landlord was a round woman from Naples. When V left with her single suitcase she’d ask,
“When will you return?”
“Who knows, there’s so much to see.”
“Yes my vagabonda.” 

The last time I saw V was without notice or surprise, at a bar in Brooklyn. She’d boarded a bus in Cleveland where she’d taken up work as a grade school teacher. She had a few dollars and wore boots that came to her knees. She asked me where there was dancing. After a drink we walked out into February’s night where she evaporated into the ice.