d. I dreamt you sent me a card with red flowers that said: “Instead of Montreal, come to my show a week from Thursday.” The letters were large and gray, more circular than yours. Maybe your mother wrote it, I guessed but knew it couldn’t true. When I woke up I thought it might have been an old invitation, meant for someone else. You never work on Thursdays. I reviewed my unsent emails and realized I should have delivered them in red bows.

b. I was relieved to find that your captioned stills terrify me.

k. Over and over you coo “hellooo” into my voicemail as if I can hear you leaving the message. When I return the calls it’s too noisy to hear you and as soon as you pick up I lose my voice against the train anyway.

o. I part and fall into two cold blocks. I am proof of how neatly soft water can be sliced. I wished it had been different last night.

a. I weaken in four places and accordion dramatically when I’m with you. Finding the floor with my hands I tell you, again, the story about how I asked my mother How many years you get for adultery. She told me No Years because It Isn’t Illegal and I realized how much simpler my life would be. I was eight. After that I smeared my makeup and poured a whiskey for you.

b. We talked about the faces we wear in the world and who would roll the heater in. You sauteed the garlic and I poured the gin heavy with my socks pulled up high over my running tights. It was only ten but we acted like we had been talking all night.

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