I asked you what you wantedme to write and you said itdoesn’t matter that you wouldread it anyway that it couldbe about the nonchalanceof oceans that wage stormson somedays, that it could beabout heartache and thewarm flood of emotions thatrush to your chest cavity asyour heart leaps out of itscages and into an outlineon a page.So, I ask you if I could everpull words together to describewhat we have, that this invisiblerope of connection tied between uscould ever translate well intodevices,I ask you, “How do I describe you?”The way your mind racesfaster than mine , pulling me,out of breath and tired, along onadventures I can’t make sense ofand impressions I don’t care about.You tell me, to write about the way thesun shines on the side of the roads wewalk together and how muchthe things we say might cost us,and how;we look back at pictures from monthsago and talk of it like its froma different lifetime/your eyes gleam when I say your name/the freshness of the grasswe lie on make shapesas we shift under a sunthat can’t help but shine.I tell you that I’m trying toput words together and thatthey all taste strange inmy mouth, like they’re filterson french windows,becausenothing I write could compareto the inaccessible parts of usthat can only draw themselveswith accuracy.We’re like a uniquekind of déjà vu, with unfamiliarityseeping through only when wetranslate moments into wordsand submerge the noveltiesthat we’ve long given up, to takeup more space and spread thedistance between us. If we partedways without reason, I’d walkaway with contentment for the timewe had and if we speak again,I’ll tell you, that the time hasn’tdone much for me; I still don’t havewords for you but I think of uslike two bright starscollapsing into each other, burningoff of combined energy and settlingonly for a galaxy that is vastenough to contain us.