in the between. i rock green circles on the sole of your best shoes. cover your blank book in blue concentric. stand in the sill. and stare. there are 12 cars in the parking lot. where your car sits unmoving. still. i call the name of the car when it runs. but without the lights. it can't hear me. the wind. goes. the wind purrs my name. in the between. where the cracks of the pane make whispers of ghosts. monumental. and i don't know much about space and time or the way cell phone rings and toasters can make me jump out of my skin. sometimes. but the perfect way the light reflects off the trees in the neighbors yard. across the cement divide. that's between. made my whole world green washed for approximately 6 seconds. not a perfect number day. this. like sandwiches and thin gold rings for fingers. calling. but when the dial tones and breaks to go. only his hollow voice says something about a name and a number. but the tin canned version makes me nervous. and i forget to speak the sounds that are me when i'm put into words.