We drift on the winter sun’s glints, where the horizon is a musician’s lips pressed tight on a horn repeating a note in 12/8 time. When I met you I thought you said you were a parasol, and I imagined you spinning upward in a painter’s daydream. At this moment we find each other where things are lost, or—let me put this better— where we’ll never find each other again. We’re caught in the memory of shade as we drift beneath the ligatures of nimbus, or in your words a mean-loooking sky. All bliss drips into each of us at this moment when we don’t feel lonely. But I won’t share what I protect. These confessions are for someone else I haven’t met.