Francine runs in the morning. Before the sun comes up. Before anyone calls. Before the bed begins to miss her. I tell the sky we’re married, she writes, I tell myself I’m a horse in a field near a mountain that is your mouth filled with caves and bats and cobwebs. Francine knows how to end things. Before the books are written. Before the hurt sets in. Before the bed begins. To miss me, she writes, is one thing. That is right. I tell myself I’m in Spain near the sea with everyone who’s ever missed me, singing. Francine runs in the morning. Francine is the mountain, always will be.