"what are you looking forward to?"
"not a lot. the summer. maybe."
"what about it?"
"getting out of oregon. heading east. seeing you."
you say this, and i cringe (but you didn't see, i think). i read to you over the phone that she says her words are all borrowed, ill fitted, like baggy suits. you ask me "what about nakedness," and i'm worried now, because i could borrow those words from you and share them, or i could just keep them to myself.
i like to hear you move around your apartment over the phone, because it is the same as when i knock on your door and i hear you move around in there, your bare feet, your tennis shoes, your socks.
"there's more to look forward to than me, don't you think?"
no answer.
because you still crave santa anna winds; the rain-river through your front yard.
