Relationships

It was a jazzy blues kind of night.  My thoughts and I sat alone. A sliver of smoke curled around my fingers before climbing onto another memory. Orange, purple, black. Fire, smoke, nothing. Inhale, exhale, breath. (She was sleeping, oblivious to the coming morning when an empty space will replace

One night to be confused One night to speed up truth We had a promise paid Four hands and then away

I'm always waiting for you to come home.

I miss her.

It's getting slightly easier. We distract ourselves with the practical: Her: Finding a sublet, new bosses and friends and antagonists at work, discoveries of sandwich shops and malls and neighborhoods. Me: Projects at work, errands, what I'm doing when puttering around the apartment.

Tonight the fog came as it always does, to the south, through the valleys between Twin Peaks and Potrero Hill.  Planes descended and ascended from SFO like Lite Brite and I wondered how long I can keep from counting down the days. I emptied the dishwasher.  Normally she wipes the