I write to you and keep it for myself. I cook noodles and pace.
The gutter comes off of the building at an angle and the water curves towards the ground.
We look around the room, looking at people and things. We talk and make eye contact,
sometimes. A part of the treehouse falls out of the tree. No one is near the tree.
An animal is burrowing under the tree. A cloud moves slowly above the tree.
I throw my body on the bed and think about how it would feel to discuss something
with you and not think about your body. I remember looking at your clothes
while you wore them, and imagining what made them that shape.
Telephone wires with a little slack. The animal in the tent near the bleachers.
That cloth that moves circularly. What is the matter? I want to care more than I can.
