thirty-one december
four : nineteen p.m.

on a night when you don't want to see anyone, you reach out to me from far away.

"i'm in the middle of some serious ignoring of the world. it feels good. don't tell anyone you saw me."

and you tell me about your goldfish. and that you are out of wood. and that driving on the highway gives you panic attacks. about daydreaming, thinking too much, strange cats on the street, hammocks.

you send me a package. you tell me you like making me blush. you say that, if we had gone on being afraid of each other for all these years, you'd still be wondering about me. you silently sing me to sleep from a town on a river.