autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.


For unknown reasons, I am thinking about a friend over the water tonight. I wonder how he is, how life and family progress, if all is well, and run the litany of things unsaid, things too often said, and ponder if or how any of this thinking is more than winding out the last, little bit of memory; perhaps to spool away, perhaps to weave some bit of lace to touch and savor, perhaps merely to feel as if there is anything left at all except the odd empty that is the place where once once friendship lived.

I miss silly conversations as bottles warmed. I miss making music. I miss the feeling that I would never have to miss my friend.