• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 01

Heavy Air

Everyone’s a flyer today. Last we met, you were collecting
tickets—to London, to Boston—and almost called it philately.

I kissed you and you were thinking of Paris, or Bavaria, or
Cornwall, or somewhere, but not there. As kids we never

thought much of places without carts or boats—or we did
a little too much—but that was all. Now boats and carts

are close to nothing, and you like looking at the wings, cloud-
shrouded on almost moonlit nights. You say the stars are closer

here, so close one could just tiptoe and grab a handful, like
cotton, like dewy little pearls, like white snow. I tell you it’d be

good to think of it that way, but in the green grass, there is
peace in silence, music in noise; that home is always closer.

So you speak nothing a while; I look at you, your name mellow
on my tongue. There are times when I know you love me

no matter what, so when you’re disappointed, I say nothing.
Last night, I left a postcard at your door: Emma, I love you.