Not tonight. A waning motion is a closing in. I spend the day thinking of Jude. The intensity of interaction, the way some couples mingle with each other as if they are strangers the surprise you with a telling glance. How much I crave the broken windowpane I see each day make itself whole again.

On any given thought I am walking down the street, Jude. I would hope that the warmth people share is not a tearing apart. For winter, I have thought, is only a shadow of her hair, flagrantly lost to fingers. Asher sent a note, a poem really, that focuses on the blue of iambs. We should talk more frequently about the colors of sound. The mysterious way we each bleed differently.