i rarely come here with important thoughts, never news from me. never from you, either, i suspect, though i can't be sure. you are sand in these crazy currents, and you won't be followed by anybody, least of all me.

sometimes i simply crave your presence, still, although i knew it for only a speck of our existences. i don't want to come up with words for you, about you, to you. i just want to be, to know you are.

i see you, older, still dreaming of a dreamer's life. i see myself, always looking over my shoulder, in case you come back, like the rest of them have. i see my feet in chicago, boston, madrid, st. louis, and finally in puddles on the sidewalks in lexington, holding tight to lives that were never mine.