We trade phosphorus whispers through the glass, two heavy-weather ghosts anchored to desk chairs. You wear your lowercase alphabet like a shield, while I drink the blue glare of an insomniac tide, spilling

The October we mapped the quarries, you were the cartographer of what-if, your kingdom of mica-flecked granite and birch-choked ravines charted in graphite on stolen paper. We swore oaths on arrowheads

From this high perch of bone and years, I watch the valley of might-have-beens, where every risk was a river, wild with light, and I, a stone upon its sun-bleached shore. There was a ship whose sails were

The sky’s got that bruised-plum look again, and the air smells like wet concrete and memory. Most folks are tucked away, watching Netflix, complaining about the damn drizzle. Not us. We’re out in it. The

After midnight, the fluorescent hum spills from the gas station onto wet asphalt. The click and gulp of the pump, gasoline sharp in the damp air. Inside, the cashier, a ghost in a blue smock, scrolls through