Rememberer, who writes with a finger of fire on our forgetful hearts, do not depart from us when we no longer look back on the days that are surely coming, for we cannot see what is written there on the hearts of others and, confused, continue to confound remorseful contrition with wounding indifference. Amen.
I said, "It's been a while since people talked." She said, "The focus on the wrath that comes overwhelms." Thinking aloud, I asked, "How is one supposed to navigate the openings to unopened letters?" She answered, "Salutations matter little when the world selfies itself on vacation." "Ha," I said, "no wonder scripture turns into garbage." She smiled. "Always preaching to the silent choir where love already abounds in songs."
Washing dishes I hear the piano - or - is it the sound of vibrating strings, - or - the meeting of felt and wound steel? From the tenderness of notes - it must be - the slight pressing of your fingertips on ivory. - Those same fingertips - - curled - - resting - - on my chest - an hour ago before you awoke.
"Take your time with the one you love while avoiding the sucking rush of the vacuumer of souls. For Death is the only one who waits at the end of that vicious pull." She said, "There you go again. Turning a romcom into a tragedy." I paused and said, "The only good thing to come out of constantly being disappointed is becoming good at assuaging the disappointment in others." She said, patting the cushion, "Come. Sit back down. Here. Next to me." I said, "The world is full of roles and a role is but a gesture in time." She said, "Some say love is like a rose. Leave your thorns in the kitchen. Petal me."