we never actually met so how do I tell you that I counted your name 

a hundred and three times in the second to last novel I finished, that 

your name paints the gravel flashing beneath tires rolling too fast; how

do I say that a week ago you asked me something in a dream and when 

I woke up I started mourning because I never told you I didn’t have 

anything. That you wouldn’t have stayed because I’ve folded too many 

paper cranes opposite of your desk, that if I ever painted a mug I would 

varnish it in that color but I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it. That I 

once painted for you but I don’t remember doing it and you don’t remember 

because it didn’t happen. There’s a flat spot thirteen feet above the ground 

that shows me the entire sky’s sunken hole of stars, this time I saw a falling 

one parallel to the droplet of salt staining the wooden grain. We never actually 

met—rather—I never actually met you, because how do you apologize 

to someone as your first words to them; how do you tell them that I don’t 

know how to show the difference between two ends of a spectrum?