Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room. Half illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name. Our letters sound the same; full of all our changing that isn't change at all. All straight lines circle sometime. You said "Somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts to all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away. Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere someone says 'I'm sorry.' Someone's making plans to stay." So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known, or you knew when you were four and can't remember. Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams, and the silence knows what you silence means, and your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them) are linked, like days, together. I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the fire-door that we kept propping open. And I love this place; the enormous sky, and the faces, hands that I'm haunted by, so why can't I forgive these buildings, these frameworks labeled "Home"?