your letters are always on weighted paper, thick with the things you have paddled into. your s's, like your r's, are turned in on themselves and reflective, shoulders down and grieving. i see you're on the water again, that you are claiming it. all of the space between rustled waves as they shape themselves in the wind. it is not like the peaches or the squares of yellow light, not like the cobblestones of krakow and the small cracks between them. how much has changed between then and now, how many times have we been broken? how many times will we be fetching ourselves from the mountains, climbing up then down again, a bag filled to the brim with our hearts?