At Boulderbar (2)

When I lose touch with someone, the last thing to let go is their language—how they would write about a day, verbalize a Wednesday walk, how they would choose precisely their ways to punctuate and exclaim—through my knowledge of one’s language I feel befriended, and too often unidirectionally beloved. Paris ate my friend; an occupation and other errands, friend of friend. So did Klyde eat Saliace. I as a remindee of residuals, watched and waited for what at first manifested as a quiet fissure to crack down bit by bit everything among us. The long gaze then dissolved my focal point until the remaining figure became barely recognizable. We are therefore “at a party that doesn’t love us” (Tranströmer), recovering from each other only once.