i was looking for you in the garden. the shadows under the trees perforated night skies. i found it hard to see in the glare. the only response to a call was the rustle of leaves, birdsong. your name diffusing through the undulations in the air. the kitchen doors were open. i checked the fridge before continuing. skipping stairs was a stretch but still a habit. years later, a couple lanes away from where we lived. i watched an asteroid break up on entry. bright limbs streaking across a black sky. what were the chances? miracles unfolding overhead. drinking in the park. i could never explain the pit in my stomach. frantic, nervous pacing through the house. if we act like things are not spiraling out of hand, does that make them so? if a thought goes unspoken,

does that erase it?

the unbroached

belief when my friend died decades later, that subconscious echoes carried him through me. but it never rears its head when it can be reasoned with. the world ends on a quiet weekend. not through diagnoses, emergencies, collapses - although