There, that Stare there; guided eyes pop (after lock (to drop a me, a melting me,  a me, a me, a me)).

BAM! Contact like the moon-landing.

Stare lines up lines in foreground, middle-ground, background. Lines the open window’s top with the next building’s facade with the birds’s whistle opera to the lines besprinkled in her notebook. Oh, why? I doughnut know!

Lining the music-to-watch-the-world-go-by with the dance it takes to line ever-varying tree tops with raindrops streaking tireless across her ’02 Altima, she escapes. I imagine all this in black and white, a dog in the back seat.

R ‘n’ B heartbeat tugs me, the inch-of-antifreeze engine, up ‘n’ up.

We find tequila bouquet in the stairwell. Fresh-aired, dim-lighting courtyard is all lines, all around. Sidewalk delineations to the fresh-cut parallel to the mulch perpendicular to the roots reaching for our fickle shadows who cross them all, pressing on a vector helpless. I see the lines in her words. The lines designed by neurons, firing in that well-shaped, carefully-crafted —

— O! How I envy those neurons! Sustained by her thinks, her art, her creation; infinity treats. If I could hold but the tiniest puff of those thinks in the tiniest bit of these lungs for the tiniest splintering of time, I’d be punch-drunk and sustained, all the way down my line, doggedly craving a parallel, stumbling between now and then like a slam rescinded.