On nights when Netflix streams are turbid with smog and the taste of waiting has hints of apple cider, I stumble on you like September stumbles on fall. I want to be your friend. I want to run parallel to your cubist sunrises and draw graffiti on the white marble silence that stands between us. Sometimes it’s your name and sometimes it’s stories too long tucked away you could see where the moths have made an opening. The incomplete retelling is to them like a glue that reconciles mistakes made in the past. From back when this place was nothing but a picture on a postcard. And the love you loved was a question akin to Schrödinger before they opened the box, and I was busy finding my next beautiful destruction. Two mutually exclusive circles, like a Venn diagram. And then, a verse of Exodus that reads like a chapter of the Psalms. And now the hours are plaited like Egyptian hair, but all the intersection points are smoothed by fear and taboo. As if there weren’t enough loneliness in the world.