When you wake, the eastern rooftops are bathed in pink, a sliver of dawn sneaking through the cloud cover. By the time you get back from your morning walk, coffee cold in the mug, the light has turned to snow flakes, fluttering to the ground like they were choreographed to. He writes from years of silence to ask where you are, it's all part of the consistent dance of your respective poetries, little breadcrumb trails of a connection severed too soon, lifelines thrust into the ethers like a warm caress that confirms signs of life but nothing more. You disappear down a rabbit hole of histories, uncover reminders of who you are and how you got here. There was magic in your life, once.
Surely, there could be again?
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