You told me to come and see.
I am here and waiting.
You are too.
The room is silent and my screen-scattered mind is fried,
starving for an algorithm to fill what seems at first glance like absence.
Patience is a battered piece of the heart,
a fruit so often pruned in a too-fast world.
Breathe. Pull a prayer from that rusted lockbox of memory. Keep trying.
It is summer and the air conditioner rumbles.
The bones of this house groan as breath passes through.
Is this what I sound like these days?