In other words

This one's about desire (what's left of sunlight, just stains and spots), about the desire to leave.

There are things you forget, like how skin in winter can go raw when it's not been loved the right way (the tinking of the heat register, the scrape of ice skates on the flooded frozen tennis courts out back).

Things we only suspect (how leaves sometimes don't fall, just fall away).

All along the boardwalk, the washroom signs witty and indecipherable. All the way home, wondering about his hands.

Later tonight (the nights are winter now, thin and obvious), I will look up, the sky all orbits and trajectories, just spilled salt on a dark marble floor. How to say it.

It's all a cartoon love when you try and write it down. Nothing left to do but say it.