It was the way he stood, ending
proximity. His arms folded like a woman
clutching her purse in a dark alley.
You could fit a counter between us.
I could be checking his coat or
taking his order at dawn
in a twenty-four hour truck stop.
In the length of an ellipsis, I wrote
a letter in my head. I burned it and kept
the ashes. Sad as memory; proof of heat.