He's no musician. He writes plays. I want to press my face in his palm and smell what he has written about the characters about the words about the taste of granny smith apples and of lemon cinnamon sex. Let the understudies take over, play the roles in our lives, so we can forget our cues. So he can ride the underground trains to the end of the line twisting up into my spine through tunnels where it is always night.
Night carries sound far and well.
I missed you. It is the same feeling Pandora felt after lifting the lid. I like to garden so I do. It will happen. Maybe in ten years.