this letter's ten hours too late
(forgive the incompletion, the remains must have rolled beneath your tires)
use the flat, dull line of my lips to trace your path north of here, though you're already there and i couldn't have known. (but should i have seen?) it's the art of illusion, and not-knowing-whether it's you or i or those faces last fall that derailed us, burnt out our chance on the ice over michigan, but when is it time to let go? and do you know that i'm not made of stone? (but are you?)
it's a marvelous gift, darling, but really, you shouldn't have.