Littered around my room are books. Books lounging, gathering dust small ones below bigger ones,a tottering column when I nudge them a little;

Supplying an apt metaphor for those days we had tread on shared laughter and yellow light thrown by the lamp on your window sill. Those were the small things, the minor details, happiness too perhaps, that lived before the assault of Big Ambitions, borrowed and adopted. It lead to the closing of the doors and snapping of the wires. I know now I was placing smaller books first, perhaps I didn't see the larger ones.

Also this I know,one needn't be a board certified physican to heal, it's love that heals and yours healed me. Thanks.

Now only the remananents are left behind: a poster of a monastery at dawn, another dawn just a few days ago when I woke up feeling suddenly cold, you had already woken up and were bustling around, now it's a premature winter in the middle of a humid summer.

The night is lonely and I ache to hear your voice. The airlines have sent me a good fare deal, just another way that things take me to you, I looked at it twice to make sure that it was not a trick because it came a week too late.

I travel tonight in my thoughts and since you won't wait at the end of gate A, in your red cardigan anymore I know there is no arriving for me now.

I trace lines on my skin, inscribed in a braille like script is your name, followed by "I was here". I saw such names all above me in a camp bunkhouse on the rafters once, "Joey was here, 1995". "Peace people, Amanda 15".

And when I complete the tracing, I remeber those moles on your skin arrayed like constellations and me counting them one by one, as if somewhere I knew such a day would come when I will forfiet all the rights to count or measure anything that is yours.

The books have finally tipped and are all over the floor, words have dried up in my throat and this is all over too.

2002:08:07 01:00 Atlanta