Elevator mirrors and subway panes still contain the glassy tinkle of your laughter. But missing your petite pianist hands, I twist in my palms, this slightest whimper of words.

Note: Written somewhere between Kipling Station and St. George Station of the Toronto Subway, while reading, half-heartedly (the other half then being on a jet-plane) Michael Ondaatje's latest novel "Divisadero"; yes, I bought it, and yes it is good.