My beginning and your ending got so close that all traces of you in my memory lost hold.

When I have nothing left to say, I have you- a series of disappearances, a street sign, a shade of turquoise, and a Formica table.

A few decades later we have hundreds of sadness medications. There is an information machine in everyone's pocket.

We have nothing left to say, and we keep saying it.

Take my face between your hands, Is this what you expected? I thought I would write this once, and instead it is every time.