It’s morning somewhere else as the sun disappears.   My heat leaves and I’m a walking shadow,  I can imagine it…  There are threads still woven, like nerve endings in fingertips.  I feel you even though the pollution only lets me see three blocks ahead. I don’t want to be the only one.

Re-read letters to hear your voice, but I never heard it.  I built it all without direction.  Perhaps I put too much water and my paper cup got too soft and fell apart in the ocean.  Or was it me?

When she handed it to him, he wondered why.  She looked down at her shoe laces and the long narrow mouth of this escalator.  In limbo there she is still, amidst the motion.  Maybe she is deluded. The glare of this answer hits my eyes and I close them.

She closed them.

Shift up and feel the wind playing in your shirt.  Appreciate each note and the rest(s).

Leave a crack in the door and plants will grow over this house.

But what was it to you?  This spectrum is only expanding and we are only where we are.  Moving…and frozen.  Oceans and solar systems apart.  Both children of the desert but different stories.

She knows nothing is permanent.

Months later she reads the words written above.  The marks of her own right hand sound like a mystery, they must belong to someone else.  The notes from some lonely girl on a bus probably.

All of my answers stare me in the face, and I still want to close theses old eyes.