‘i shed before walking out the door’ she writes in hopes that he stays this time, that he comes back that he begins to breathe a sense of place, fills his lungs with sitting still and listening. there are birds here. a river. a lake if you attempt the stroll. ‘this is my intention’ she thinks. ‘to distinguish you from the flowers. to paint you into this everyday.’ you breathe deep, deep enough to hold distant places in your lungs so deep those places fill your eyes, you don’t see her skin shiver before you turn into the heat, into the horizon, ask for more and return with nothing, or do you return, or does she imagine it, next to the kerosene lamp, pieces of pottery at her feet, watching what she remembers of your skin, revolving.