Castles maybe. And thunder. Lemons and yellow dresses. Common sense isn’t. So books of poetry with folded pages. Lines underlined. Chicago. Crying in movie theaters. Acoustic guitars. The things you found in your pockets. Empty bottles. More lemons. Keep it yellow. Credit cards. Airports. Arguing with Rothko. She was in her closet, picking a dress. Figure eights. Rachael Yamagata. Nostalgia for complete sentences. Bones. Breath mints. Spider webs. The junk drawer. Fragments. A “J” over here. An “n” across the room. Oh, and don’t forget the stuff buried in the dirt. Things we can’t know. Calculus. Archetypal psychology. Infinity. Don’t ask what it means. Build bridges. Because mothers. Deserts. Rings. Not a stream of consciousness. Pieces. Cake. Cappuccino on the deck. A vase, sans flowers, shattered on the tile. Ask a bum. Mountains. Ruins. And her sorting through pieces. Jigsaw puzzles. I’d like to buy a vowel. An “o”. Putting me back together. Gaps in your memory. Trains. Trains. Trains. She swept up the mess. Swiss chocolate. Blackouts. A used copy of Murakami. This goes here. And that goes there. Glue. Duct tape. Open heart surgery. He’s going to make it. A collision. A collage. And her eye for asymmetrical harmony until I am messy and whole. Her long neck. The bone behind her face. My big hands. Her hungry waist.