Joy is a sandwich from the airport, signifying your return. The clock starts up again, like some forgotten tribal drum.
Did you miss me? Silly—I always miss you.
Where did you go? (Sprouts, cucumber, aioli, turkey. Fancy napkin) It is desert but cultivated closer to where people live. The horizon recedes.
What did you learn? The reasoning is very fine, very fine. I attended a seminar on noise, and I brought you a book about silence. Hey, let me talk to you about standard deviation.
You are washing up. Artifacts from abroad are strewn like debris. (Maps, routes, hotels, tickets) I am home because you are.
I munch my sandwich. (What is aioli? What is an ombudsperson?) Movement away from you is only movement towards, twirl like a dervish from birthday to deathday. Teach me, Agni, to look upon the unseen like an awaited face, and say: I miss you all the time.