move with me to belgium, he says. we’ll go. let’s go. silence. arizona, he moans. and i say, simply, summer. i remember you, his words slide between years of regret and foolish years of being too young. don’t ask me, i can hear my voice like sandpaper saying, because i remember you too. let’s fly away, he sings. and his voice wraps me up in this desire to run far away. fall into arms. close my eyes and forget the world and time and those breakable incendiary things hidden right beneath the skin. i don’t want to fall apart, i whisper. tired and vulnerable and under the haze of too many waking restless hours. and he says, people who really love you, well, they’ll love you even in pieces—each and every one of the pieces—they’ll love you into pieces and then back whole again. and maybe that’s the point. maybe there’s something there to think about. maybe i should have known that already.