As if a relationship had wheels, its course like a drunk driver. There is no hint of sweetness. Ignoring neon songs with the formal properties of chaos. So much for dancing. As if shaking with honey on one’s tongue. Learning to waltz with sadness, a blue package dropped in a cold place where it dies. In a handmade ceramic mug brimming with tea. The moon window transmits blocks of noise, screaming like a computer. You are not a child. It cannot be today or sugar. I would have made you into a rare syrup poured into a jar and preserved in the freezer. But you are the very one that I would have served the syrup to. Extracting light from an old tablespoon or a cup. So much it seems to resemble the shape of the phone in your pocket. Not much. I would immerse myself in your senses. But there is no such thing as connection. It is a moon on the page. It is bitter spinach. As if shaking with it and all that it would have been, I drink my tea.