Raising questions, just like the body, each curve in a sentence, of before and after - that I never arrived at the time stated, that the trains stuttered. This wasn’t the time to fall. Small toys still clutter the boxes along with the old believers. A promise as quick as youth, the insouciance of languages between aisles and ring tones. Now, through each eye, everything appears amber, an effect of late winter, and a day after hail. There are 101 rendezvous we never made. That isn’t a wound, of course, nor is it a direct statement. There’s too much that we never really had. The price of junk mail. The embroidery on our predatoriness, a dalliance with ten thousand songs saved on the soft drive. Beware of the yellow sliding doors, they’ll kiss you quick. Alongside tender self-absorption, fog on the towers, an unfinished restoration where stone goes grey and wistful, there are the high dissatisfactions. But it was good in that moment, wasn’t it?