Maybe not. Maybe you're still sitting in the dark where each knob is attached to your ear and telling you what to do. Maybe I'm faint to recall, like the rain: wake up one day and it's gone. Try to remember and come up smells. No scenes. Clouds crowding me out. Coffee making me black.

I don't know. I just can't see. It's a dark horse, and you're balanced behind a piano. If I breathe too hard I might knock you off the bench. I have to keep my distance here. You must remain strictly the star. I must find contentment in your constellation, your Mars, your Milky Way.

But I throw a rope out and catch nothing but stardust with your name on it. It surrounds me like music, like Morricone, like a legato long-distance love.

Glitch... glyph... gamble. I'm glad to be manhandled. It's the space I can't seem to sign off. The little lifts, separated like dots. Trailing up to the door where the short line ends.