This is a tiny letter. Reminding arched stances. Your fingers tracing the surface of your earring. Of sleep as it gradually cascades. Of voices and amazement.
Nobody responds to unnamed letters. Not even a nod of the head. Not even a wink. Not even a snap of their fingers. She spoke to me about her. While others hid behind the haze of smoke. I didn’t hear her in the din of sculpted conversations. She could’ve told me anything that day. And it wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have heard. I responded in nods. Whenever she paused to sip from her cup. No we weren’t drinking coffee. She’d gate-crashed. And the glasses were over. Two of them crushed beneath drunken feet. Someone called for a change of music. No one responded.
Are you standing there? By the railing. Or there? Watching a half-moon window shade. The brook by the parking lot couldn’t have dried so soon. Would it wait for us? While we spiral down the winding elevator, wheezing the weightlessness of a fall. While we stumble through the phantoms of 1977 Ford Cortinas. I follow. You drawn towards the shallow gurgle of the pebbles strewn. Shifting balance. From one toe to the other. Your fingers tracing the surface of your earrings. Your eyes narrow. Will you find a place for us to sit?
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