Except from an unsent letter [July 30, 2003]

I’m just sitting here with my dress on. Do you remember the dress? The white one. You said it was like getting down to business. You liked me that day in this dress.
*
We walked home. You crouched beside a window, watching firemen climb the stairs of an abandoned house. There’s never a fire you said. They came back down with their hoses and hats. I didn’t sleep that night. When you did, I poured a glass of water and placed it on the bed.
*
I’m at the beach now. People walk by in bathing suits and sandals. You’d hate them. You’d say nothing. And awkwardly, I would be the bird. That bird on the tip of the sea that doesn’t say anything, waiting.