In this familiar place, these dreams, we quarrel over petty things. You've never been here, not physically, but you seem at home, familiar, and I guess that makes sense. What doesn't is the fall, the falling; I've adapted to it, adopted it, really, somehow, though it is yours, though you shouldn't be here; you belong out there, away from it, beyond my reach, in the natural world. But here it is, and here we are, disjointed and juxtaposed, my poetry and your prose, fluttering about these neon lights, and he is the punctuation and she is the space between each empathetic syllable.