You went home again. Even that sentence was (is) hard to get a handle on when being together couldn't feel anymore like home. So I drove down the mountain and marvelled at the blanket of haze; spent every morning driving your streets; thumbing through thrift store racks you'd shuffled. I even (in search of gift-making items) slipped into your old work (I took a slide outside). I felt like I'd climbed into some secret part of you - stories you tell. I didn't want to leave, but feeling like a total creep - the only customer in a cavernous fabric store - I skulked away.