5:28am in Los Angeles
5:28am in Los Angeles. She sleeps quietly in the arms of her lover. Her breath passes across his chest, moves over the landscape of his body like warm breezes over still waters.
His breath is steady, it is even. It is strong, like him. Her head ascends, descends. Closer to the sky and then to the ground as it is carried by the movements of his breath.
It is still dark in Los Angeles. Something wakes her though she is not sure what and through the haze of sleep and dreams she says to him:
“it is still night.”
“but i have woken and so i may tell you good morning.”
They sleep again.
Perhaps yours lies next to you, dreaming, while you compose a letter to the sleeping woman in Los Angeles. You tell her you are thinking of her. You tell her you are sorry. You tell her you want to see her. That you would like to say these words to her eyes.
The distance between you now is safe.
Sunlight begins to filter through her apartment, across the floor where you stood in the moments before you walked out of the door one morning last winter. She sits, sleepy-eyed, sees your name onscreen, apparition. It all seems so long ago, so distant. Your memory is farther than you are.
She opens correspondence bearing your name, the name of a ghost.
Subject: buenos aires.
She reads your words.
Returns to her bed, to the arms of her lover.
She kisses him, closes her eyes.
And forgets you again.