I remember the time you got mad at me because I sent you a letter, but instead of writing everything out on paper and folding it up, I wrote all over the envelope, wrote out everything I had to say on the subject of fridge magnets and fortune cookies and the deep philosophy of potted plants, sealed it up, stamped it and sent it your way. You opened the empty envelope and threw it away. I got your letter back: What the hell was that shit?

I remember:

Once, while you were sleeping, I wrote all over your mirror in free verse poetry. I told you all about the summer breeze outside and described the swoosh-and-whisper of the tree branches and the way your chest rose and fell. You let it stay up a full day before you took the time to wash it off.

I remember:

One evening I sat in front of the piano and put my fingers on the keys and let them tell you stories. I played to you of Moonlight and Raindrops, of Dolls and Dances, until my fingers ached and my wrists burned. After the music had wound down, you shrugged impatiently and left the room.

I remember:

I wrote you a love note, telling you how I felt about the curve of your ears and the dents in your elbows, and left it in your pocket. A week later you brought it back to me in a soggy, tattered mess, telling me with your eyes that you were sorry, you had accidently washed it, and you had never gotten a chance to read it. With my silence I told you it was ok, I had changed my mind anyway.