Remember how our pictures were gold? They only looked gold because I couldn’t see how the gold can fade and show rust underneath. The sparkle was gone, but I kept clawing at the gold plating anyway. I wondered if my fingertips could paint over rust so the gold could stay.

We hang photos on your wall. We fill your shelves with books I’ve yet to read. The window is open again, smoke billowing from the other end of your cigarette. They paint pictures on the

Someone give me a map to red wine, and khinkali, to peaches and fried chicken, or that Ray Charles song everyone loves singing to me.

I imagine finding you on the train on the way to Berlin. We’re sipping our cups of coffee, careful not to burn our tongues so our mouths could speak.