Perhaps, if I stay still like this, I can absorb all your disquiet. However, a screen between us. Thin, papery. Your fingers move over it: gently at first, then with a grave ambition, and finally, at a pace that measures out your sorrow. When your fingers stop moving, there is more than a screen between us. Pale flowers, grey leaves. Perhaps, if the stems weren’t still, I would be able to absorb some of your disquiet. Perhaps, if you were closer. Outside, a group of workers breaking stones until dusk to build a better road. Later at dawn, wood on wood, water over fire, and something simmering. What is it like, inside? You watch steam condense on stone, and after the droplets form a pool at your feet, you decide to get some sleep. Was it night if it was not black. You sleep with your window open, seeing it closed tonight, I try to get to you, but my feet are wet. A blank dream could be a gift. White on white. Puddle by the fire. My socks absorb the water which you saw evaporating. Perhaps if I used a strainer, you would drink some tea. I wait for the leaves to settle down on copper, but you have already left. Something moves outside. Something else has moved you to leave these rooms and I will drink my tea alone. You come back with your face folded. You wanted to talk to them, but could not understand their words. You are saying, but I am remembering. Will they be gone after machines take over? Later, a thing exchanged for coins. Much later, some warmth. You have been burying. As have I. Seeds into soil. Leaves into mulch. Perhaps, if you stay like this, I can still absorb your disquiet. Sedimentation. Decantation. Close to my brain, a mellow flower grows. Therefore, if I could, I would steal all your disquiet. Or borrow, and never return. Always, the world grows and tangles up outside. What distance is not real. Would you believe me if I said: I will not weep when you die.