Mi,
   Yesterday I saw him. I see him everyday. But usually he is every tall, college-aged boy with a brightly colored polo shirt and pre-worn jeans. Yesterday he was him. I can still tell the difference. Can still make out what’s real and what’s not. Even the real him didn’t look at me. I wonder, though, what does it mean to be so much the color of something that your movement ceases to be seen? I’m speaking of his movement, but I could be speaking of mine. I didn’t follow him. I never follow any of him, knowing that I’ll see him again and knowing to stop when it gets too close. I know I’m like the sound of a cd skipping. But I’m not changing the song. You’re asking why not. To answer you, this morning I got a tattoo on my shoulder—the shoulder being where you go when you can’t go anymore. The image was a glass about to break. I had stopped a motion. And who knows what might have depended on it. What might have taken its place.
—yours

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