I meant to send you the leading edge of the breeze. I surely had intention. It went sore, split in half—half went shining in the south. Tip my nonexistent hat NW, NE. I discussed our last conversation in dreams, as reflections. I saw you going—no expectation. The aspirin’s in my backpack. Phrasing froze white across the San Gabriel mountains. Fresh pungency of familiar hesitant silence, I was fingering the chard, the mustard greens, kale and endive. Sent out a couple emails on business. Flicked the seashell of a shared notion. If I was walking a hundred miles, I might feel it. Random people talking everywhere inform me they don’t know you, they don’t feel you, they couldn’t say. After they melt, these numbers flash in colors. As they turn to ash, pitting the skin and clothes, finally you taste them.

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