In the morning, before I have slept, I will lay on the carpet downstairs, and pretend I am not alone. I'll be dreaming still.

By then I'll have the ceiling fan winding bravely above me; and it will be cold. But I won't pay it any mind. You either.

When the sun breaks through the twisted venitian blinds - broken and missing the chain that binds them all together - I'll adjust the weighted strips to keep it from us.

Afternoon - with the promise of renewel fractured - should come easy like turning pages. And I'll welcome it with the ends of my fingers pressed against the doorway-glass, smiling. With you.

By the time the breathing of the evening rests its back against the wall, well, by then I'll be eleven feet from here. In a water bathed with concentration, alone. In a way.

Three hundred years from now, about the time all the sorrow has run dry on the beach near the cliffs outside your mother's house, I'll remember the way the smoke from my hands gathered momentum in your face; and I'll be there again, perfect, re-born, in love.

Kent Bruyneel meant this for someone else. Just one.