I left Washington state without my senses, and though 
all five were intact, I felt as if I'd been worn and 
then discarded like a blanket in the early morning. I 
soon tried consulting dictionaries and thesauruses, 
too, hoping to catch her home, hoping they'd hold her 
definition. When she begins, aligning her arms upon the 
northern wind, I lie in wait for the word back from her 
outpost. She breaks a sweat. It's hot up there and I 
have not said yet into this walkie-talkie half of the 
things that I could. If I was so skilled, I'd construct 
the biggest fan that I could build and I'd use my 
cranes to point the breeze in her direction. (A boy 
trying trying at cooling off the angels, that lonely 
boy am I.) Mr. William Shakespeare did namecheck her 
when he was writing his prose. He'd put her name in his 
rhymes, but not even once did he convey her whole 
being, not a single time. He must never have had one of 
those moments, like when I got her to smile. I didn't 
try at all, but when she looked at me she grinned like 
she'd just robbed the mall. 'You're as hot as the sun,' 
I'd say. She'd just laugh and respond, 'Okay, I'm hot 
as the sun, you say.' She stole it all and just walked 
away. I know her town, but only through her loosened 
hair of brown, so I invent the remainder to my liking. 
There is a lake, though its dimensions do cause me a 
mistake, so I lose context in my daydream of urban 
planning. I name the streets. I name the texture of her 
cotton sheets. I'm incomplete and that's the father of 
my dreaming. I looked her name up in the Bible, and it 
was there a few times in undigestable form, not in the 
way I would explain her: like how she hates when it's 
warm, and connected to that, how the hair mats to her 
forehead before a balmy mid-summer storm. And if she 
was here, by God, I'd show you, but all I've got is 
this phone. I'm all alone.