Dear Jess,

The other day my partner asked if I knew you. My mouth curled like smoke around door knobs -- filled my head with too many words that were nothing like an easy answer to that question. I had this sudden desire to call you up like old friends and ask you to play your favorite songs and let life fall into the places where gaps had grown while we'd been away.

I couldn't map myself to where you live. Recite your phone number or the name of your first boyfriend. I don't know how you like your tea or if you've ever broken a bone. If you're allergic to wheat and men from any place sort-of-like Tennessee. I could ride the afternoon number 10-line to Normal sitting right next to you, bobbing our heads to bumps and breaks like stuffed dolls, and never know.

But the sound of your voice feels like the backs of my grandfather's hands in the memory of summer. The way you imagine words and sounds of sense pulse the snakes just under my skin alive. Constantly remind me that to live life is to ask questions. You are as familiar to me as night-walking my apartment without the light. And as engagingly unpredictable as the breaking quality of true love and expensive stem ware.

I don't know your face. Where you came from. Where you'll go. Those things render themselves, often, pointless.
I'm just thankful I've gotten to see these pieces that fall out of you. Into me. Sometimes.

Always,

Imogen