I've been writing you a letter. About skin and bones. The Ethernet. Sometimes it begins I've been to London three times since you held my hand--buried your face in my hair--and said you loved me in line before the international terminal . Sometimes it doesn't. Usually, probably, I'm writing to the wrong person. Today. Here. The sky is waiting storms. I breathe it in. Full of August flowers and destruction. The monochrome of the day makes life seem more navigable. It's been ages since I've fallen in the shower. And I no longer require you for picking up my pieces. Sometimes I wonder if all my transgressions have coalesced. Crawled into my left ear and taken residence. This dull residual ache. Like the slow crushing sound of my bed frame under the weight and pressure of bodies. Moving.