I wrote her lyrics on the back of a postcard. Half of them were mine, the other half stolen from an undisclosed source by the sea. I meant to finish the piece with hope or a splintered olive branch, but instead I changed hands and wrote illegibly: I expect to hear from you next time you are bored or alone.
It has been four years now and I haven't heard that song on the radio. It has been four years and the letterbox remains closed like the reluctant mouth of a four-year-old in a dentist's chair. I haven't seen the doctor for a long time and often I know that I am dying. I close my eyes and slow my breath: there are stellar clouds and old Arcturus is falling from the sky.
The farmer's truck is offloading pigeons, descending the cages as they fight for the freedom of an updraught. I watch it behind a television screen and I see acceptable nature through my parent's back window. I have learned to experience everything behind a screen door, to keep out mosquitoes and compassion for far-off deaths: Twenty-four dead in dust cloud, as freedom spreads to the East.
I wrote her a letter the day before my wedding and told her the whole affair was simply to get a mortgage and to have a reason to shave. I knew she would likely have moved address, or else threw out my envelopes along with pizza leaflets and charity bags. I wrote clearly with my better hand: *I have found a place to rest my wings, but they still cramp at the thought of a cloud.