There was a certain serenity in the room--an inducing of cloudy wisps from sticks brown and blue and Miami-sand-white. And of golden candles with silhouettes of birds on their bellies. The smell of peony, St. Anthony of finding things, and cotton breezes mingling in the midst of me and my dog as we lounged. And, above all--the recollections of motorcycle rides and tree-shade on campus, the want to drive very fast with the windows down, taboo thoughts of sex, the heavy sighing of the Schnauzer's deep sleep--my thoughts of you. You everything. You in jeans, just jeans. You on your red motorcycle. You laying in the yard. You slipping your bracelet on my wrist. You in Chemlab. The storm clouds are coming in and I shut my windows, though you might be in the wind somehow. We only parted a small time ago but I secretly hope that you are missing me, too. Like, I am sitting and watching my brown permanent marker bleed into an index card, ocassionally seeing the candles change direction when the air-conditioner does its rounds; so maybe you, too, are enduring incredible boredom in the absence of me.