The simple

thought of living

the same time as

you seems absurd

in the way that time

creaks up the hill

like an ant.

I always thought

that loneliness

and solitude were

synonymous with

absence. I slept a

thousand years

one March afternoon

and woke up to

find grass the same

color of green, the

clouds a touch

different shade

of white. I

pinball between

theories of existence,

landing and lifting

with no better place

to go than up

or down. I love

the sound of your

voice at night—

it’s like hearing

the first drop of

rain on the planet.