I read about an old couple shuffling into a little cafe and opening a window to the summer in front of them, their slippers flying on sluggish wings, on tides that collect with age and ebb like heartbeats thumping with passion and deciding mid-way to throb together; I read they used to lay under those throbs, far past the warmth of summer, in the warmth of their chests, they spoke like head waters, like rivers that ran thousands of miles to splash together, and exit as one, "some of her lips on his words," and I could see blue running out of the sky, onto her dress, across his eyes, into their cups, and I thought of you.