estrélla

It’s been so long since I’ve written you. Today October came and frosted up my windows prematurely, I sat inside wearing two sweaters watching big blue clouds dominate the sky as the sly orange sun sopped the tops of the stubby cornices on my block. I thought about writing you then, but instead I went out and mailed a letter and bought two rolls of toilet paper. I saw the moon just starting to rise, about ¾ of it, so vast and know-ledgeable, swept clean by the cold. I thought of the space show I just saw, where they flew us past Io, one of Jupiter’s moons, whose surface has been ravaged by volcanoes for thousands of years. Can you imagine? What would it be like if we had more than one moon? I think I like it as it is, not too crowded and not too lonely. Do you remember last week when we saw that skywriting and none of us could make out what it said? I saw “remember love” but Emily said there was a T, and though it didn’t say “remember to love,” I pretended that it did. Now it’s night and I am in bed with a hat on. The floor is so cold. You are at work, sure to come home smelling of tobacco and that spice you put on the fish. So the season’s set us spinning again, with its new bite of breeze. Another year wound round us, and you still made for me. Last night I dreamt you were that gladiator we joke about in real life gleaming in black and gold light, pushing apart my thighs. It’s electric to think of it now, now that Brooklyn has closed down and I’m truly alone. I should write you all the time, tell you about this space inside me, like the hollow of a bell. But that’s not my gift. With you my gift is to live, live like this.