Everything can be explained by contextualisms.
Everyone has to give something up. Time. Space. Old clothes.
History tells us about the meaning of love, which is the silver
liquid of human emotion. We pour it over our thirsty memories.

A few kisses, a few embraces. Stealing each other’s favorite cereal
at midnight. The dust settles, things pile up on the floor next to the bed.
Thank you for the bushes, trees, plants, your back-up piano work.
I put everything into a box and then put that into a bigger box.

We are ridiculous. You say typography, I say geography.
I pull the shades shut. You record all the silences on our old recordings.