Tonight I’m lonesome enough to write a letter addressed to a Florida key. I bend my thumb to squeeze the silver from a silverfish, and in its ink I fix my signature. Branches reach toward my window to take my hand, but I am inconsolable. I stomp down the stairs like playing “Chopsticks” with my feet.
I remember you were made of dark, warm wood— or do I still? At least I feel a warmth and see a darkness. We cut our hair alike and walked the streets as if our limbs were bound together, chained like galley slaves on the Aegean sea. It’s true that I remember less well than you, and so I remember it better, even good; in the dimness of my memory you gleam, receding to a single point of light.