‎Wednesday, ‎12 ‎June, ‎2013

Morning. Portland. Cloudy skies. Quiet. Sitting with coffee by the window. Oatmeal cooking on the stove. My life in translation. A dead language, the memories. No longer spoken but remembered. Scattered parts spread out behind the ruins. Collected under trees. Heaped in unsorted mounds. Moss covered. Broken. Beautiful.

Four minutes have passed since we met. I wonder what you are thinking. Who are you? What are you doing here? Five minutes. The girl dog walks into the kitchen, sniffs my foot, leaves. I imagine you. I need you.

I begin with details, the two stunted clumps of bamboo growing in the new garden. Root and branch. Did I mention I need you?