How does one reboot a love affair? Time moves on, passions no longer boil so corrosively, accumulated memories temper the heart’s natural inclinations, their surplus pieces gathered and reconsidered, with compassion; the senses practiced, knees and muscle folding discretely into a dormant equilibrium. Yet there is still that low hunger, no longer urgent but deeper, as the days grow shorter and more predictable. Where is this all taking us, and what is left for us to touch? You are at once familiar and indistinguishable: do I know what you will say next, or will there be another kind of revelation that will jolt my accounted bones?
