There’s a picture of Machu Pichu on my desk. Sometimes when you call I have just bathed. I am listening to a song by a band someone from Maryland sent in a message. The song tells me to lie with you in a park when it’s too hot to believe our bodies are bodies but the breeze between us. I don’t know if you would like me to speak this way. Sometimes you stare at the world as if it just opened and the door was made by your hand. When I follow the breeze between us, I imagine statues until they aren’t statues but mountains and I would ask you to climb them with me, even though I don’t need you to. Sometimes I want to call you coyote. This is what I write when you are not near, wondering if I will remember the dream I had after you made the door which brought the world into my hands before I could calculate how to love you.