how is it that we find these people, whose hands fit so neatly into our hands, whose arms reach over our shoulders and pull us into them, whose faces rest flat on our faces? how is it we find them and then let them go, if not for the no longer fit perhaps but the search for newer shapes to hold? i will always stroke your arm, you say, and i hold it for you, balanced on the balastrade, and you do. i knew that you would say that.