ii. A series of letters received on the loneliest night of the years. Each homemade card had a number stamped upon it. 1. 2. 3. Un, deux, trois. The slight tilt of the handwriting forced my head to tilt to the side, as I read thoughts thousands of miles away. The night grew less lonely.
iii. Packaged away and stashed in a box, placed in the deep recesses of the walk in closet, next to the dustbunnies and forgotten pairs of house slippers. How do you store it further away without throwing it away? How do you throw away a memory?
ix. Two A.M. I picked up the old photo box and threw it in the blue dumpster. I turned around and never looked back
x. Lines of poetry not captured in books or in journals. The kind of poetry that flows forth because the receiver is willing to cut through all the "how are yous" and "what are you up tos" and swallow the words down that capture the thoughts that evade my tongue in elevators as we wait the ten floors together. The words that I wanted to whispher in her ear as she brushed past me-- she smelled like vanilla bean and tomato plants.
xi. A body is a poem. Your fingers brush along my arms. I get goosebumps.
xii. Hello, I just wrote to say hello.