sit by yourself and wait for the bookshelf to come falling; watch as the stories flow toward the floor and read. there is no passion worth your teeth. there is no point to catching things which are thrown; are thrown at you and me. and walk next to me. there is no conversation. there is only the silence between us. there are only the lakes and the ponds. there are only the stones tossed into the water. there are only the ripples which move from that point and the waves crashing on the shore. and so we stroll and so we don’t forget those nights spent strolling or trolling from bar to bar, from sea to sea, from branch to branch, from tree to tree. and if you’re alone, call. and if you don’t it’s over. but only if you think again of someone, somewhere, off and bent like fathers teaching languages, dead, or preachers preaching just to make rent or writers writing about love and trends like it’s only a mirror reflecting. it’s more than you or i, you see. it’s more like dancing in the streets. it’s more like washing clothes or feet; linens. sleep.