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It sounded like you said “I love you” when you brushed past me on the street, dragging your burden of life’s possessions and overflow. How diligently those walking and driving past made certain not to see you, not to touch the uncertainty of our eggshell existence. Your shouts to high heaven were choruses fed by some darker high, chemically fed or nourished by maternal madnesses no one but you will know. Your mumbling mysteries, shared with me alone, came flashing in a split-second community of ill wind and illness. Was it an “I love you” you sent out to the building canyons, empty and loathing as they peered down upon you? Did you hope for a late returning echo – a reciprocal utterance of love come back around, inviting you to once more come back around and be loved once more? You are heard and unheard, seen and never seen. The birth agonies and death throes of life’s wandering loved ones who send their love, wishing you were here.

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