I am appalled by the number of things that remind myself of you. The things that somehow just kind of appear, however subtle, now and then, leave a mark, and gone.

2

On a course-mate's tee-shirt, I heard a voice that belonged to you. I wonder if he read the book that I have read because you have read; if he knew where that roller coaster led to; what the flags meant; if he could see, too, how the tents would fold and unfold and along with them, the municipal buildings and the offices�the halved half.

3

I can't stand when other people speak of your name. I would picture you standing within the fog, back turned against me, nothing but your faint silhouette. You are there but you were never there. I can never stand it when your name is spoken without mine.

4

On a map of Madrid, I would trace out the streets that we strolled along that night, even if what I really wanted to do was to picture the people who have lived there, then and now. But the map was from centuries ago. What we had that night is no longer there�or not yet there?

5

I cannot stand when people call out to you. I cannot stand the chance they have that I can never taste. Each four-letter word is a painful reminder of the instances that I let run out, used up, slipped away, took for granted. If I know that that was going to be the last time I would have acted differently. You never told me that it would be the last time.

6