Looking back in time today: ten email inboxes was the last msg he sent me; twenty was two years ago when I bought her boots. Oh how things change.

I'll tell you something about nothing and everything about how I lack the words to show you how it feels. Knowing that glowing is how we begin at the end of the day—this is all a styrofoam bowl full of bowling balls: built to spill.

This is not a place for knowing.

This is no way to tell.

That was what you wanted it to be, the dub stuck on disarm, skipping skipping skipping . . .

These memories are no more mine than you are.