We sit in this stairwell smoke smoke smoke cigarettes, talk talk talk. Paul ashes on his sleeve, blows it off, says something like: that’s the thing about ashes, you can blow them away and you won’t leave a mark. He ashes on his shirt again, says something like: but if you touch them—he touches them and the cotton absorbs the ash –but if you touch them—we look at the grey smear and say no more.
I could say you died, could say you got wrapped in the steel of your car one night in the woods off some road in New Jersey driving home. I could say that. I could say a lot of things and each would seem clumsy before the silence of your Grace. Sometimes I want to follow the string of words all the way back
to the beginning. Start again.
You’re dead but I remember you and the thing about it is I could blow you away like so many ashes but instead I press you into this page.
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