I must be missing something. I'm missing the most simple things. Maybe it's this disconnect - this gap between smelling the paper of a letter you sent and the days between letters (the hours between phone calls). I keep finding myself forgetting to tell you things. The details. I think I've been tied up in so much something that I can't get down to just talking to you. I'm forgetting everything. I feel like you're forgetting too. Everything is turning into "nothing, really." Are we just so tired that we can't remember? Where are the pinpoints in our days? I never told you about the old man outside of the post office with the corn cob pipe and the ratty straw fedora. We looked at each other and stopped as if we both wanted to say something to the other. Maybe he would tell me that everything is okay. Maybe I would tell him the same. Maybe I'd tell him that I'm terrified of you realizing that this was nothing but an exercise in romance - an inspiration for pages I'll never read. Maybe I don't think it really is, but just want to keep the option ever open in case I have to convince myself that I knew all along. Maybe this comes across as shocking because I always try to be the one to quell raging worry sessions and smooth eyebrows in rooftop shapes. I'm always trying to convince myself that my worry is my problem - something that I've manufactured. I bet this is no different and I'm sure it's just the distance and everything else about here that doesn't feel like home. This dreadful couch. My clothes still in boxes. Yet another list I kept reciting. There's a broken typewriter sitting in the middle of the floor. Smashed down are the keys Q, W, E, R, T, U, Z, X, C. I don't think it's going to recover. You can't even spell many words with that combination of letters. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

My body wants what my body wants.
My body needs what my body needs.
There's no convincing it otherwise.
If I made a mold of my hand I'm sure your face would slip right in.