We slipped into the same cold March, forgetting each other less than a mile away, shifting life from death: some sobbing blue, some receiving sun.
You took lemon and salt to salmon, oil and a cube of sugar to dry skin. I wear hats on bad hair days and don't drink enough water.
Did you know all our spoons were wiped clean from our kitchen in a blistering July? I can hear God's small voice in a rare fantasy before I realize it's your favorite show on the television set in the living room thirty feet away.
The calendar's propeller brought us to December. Iris petals are tucked into journals. All the cable lines are down. The lemon trees, uprooted.