there are still holes in the air where your voice used to be. i don’t think they’re going to heal over. so i pray under my breath a lot – good things, though. like, “i am smelling these lilacs for you” and “there is a moth on the stucco. her wings are two black leaves.” i am trying not to apologize so much. yesterday i cried on the train and saw i wasn’t the only person crying. i wanted to say something to her but didn’t know what. my dog can tell when someone is sad, and he piles his toys around their feet. 

i take a lot of pictures of dandelions. sometimes i lie on strangers’ lawns and leave grooves in the grass. when it rains, gnats swerve to avoid raindrops much bigger than themselves. two days ago there was a storm, and before the storm, the clouds were a shade of blue that made me think of calling you. somewhere, your voice might be curled in an answering machine. only asleep.

i am going to go outside again.