Down in the new basement, cluttered already with a decade's worth of boxes, I found without incident two CDs you made for me. Two mix CDs that I'd hidden from other eyes. Though at the time of their sending I only hoped they contained what I'd thought I heard, now we both know I had heard what you had intended. Your penmanship looks just as sweet and coy as it did those days. My old Texas post office box scarcely clicked shut before I could, with my keys, ease open those envelopes - my heart pounding. These days, that's the same feeling I get when, unsolicited, your hands touch me - your fingers touch my face - your lips press into my skin. I still scarcely believe any of it is true. Just like the first sight of the curls of your handwriting, my chest swells at the feel of your eyelashes (they're also beautifully curly).