Flat against the pillows, I’m on the verge of drifting into a doze, but your words are tugging penny-thoughts out of the pool of my Percocet-laced lassitude. The urge to hoard love for fear of squandering it rubs against the sandscapes of split-open hourglasses — the shining shown-and-told of generosity returned and amplified. The stove waits to be washed, the towels wait to be folded, and I tell them all that I need a moment longer with you — you who were not expecting me at all, but this is what happens when you open your garden gate: tendrils of garlic catch at my hair — not as insistently as a trap, but still, a momentary clinging, an echo of how we tap the shoulders of strangers we almost recognize.