Dear Christine, sometimes you fall silent at the table and you look into the brown puddle of coffee and I know then that you know, and you have come back from 1911, and it is a century later all beautiful metallic, and suddenly the only natural thing left grows huge and pulls the asphalt into makeshift waves and we become afloat in the sea of ourselves. It matters again that our blood dries the same shade. Sometimes I smell bullshit on your body. Sometimes I don't care that you have tangles in your chemical make up. I want to put you in a room with people who believe they are the third coming of Christ. I want to throw your matchbox collection into the shitstink river. I want to slap you upside the head. Leave you to the steel tipped dogs. Let you tumble from the lip of the window. Dear Christine, sometimes you make me laugh so hard my eyeballs fracture.