On the wall of her illness, I drew her the world. We will spin hand in hand and end up here, I said once. But they are all so lonely she said, pointing to the blue of water. And with a swipe of the hand I drew Pangaea. Even if I had to travel to the past to erase the loneliness. I did it for her. See, I said. All better. The distance of oceans I had removed, bringing us even closer. But how quickly the art of hope fades. She was already on the other side. The door, erased. The hours of naming each destination. The travelogues and promises. An entire continent of continents to explore. Never and ever I had told her would always be one and the same. The us. But my words were just air. I drew her skies and openings, secret escapes for two—but I had waited too long. I would be (as it had always been) traveling alone.

Dear Rudy Huxtable,

I am concrete and a creator of garbage, alone in the apartment. What was once just depression, but how pathetic I am all out of images, writing you while love is in another city in love with another—still, Rudy, that was not a question. In the divorce I lost my favorite color even and nothing has changed. Even now writing this I hope. What. Time travel? That is a question and maybe these words will be read by someone other than you, because what future is there with me. I know. And I know this is probably a manifesto. Yes, I am probably at that point. To say I smell of loneliness an understatement. That clearance cologne I bought five years ago half dust by now. With no one here to remind me not to. You understand. Maybe that bottle is half a question. Scents and sense sound so much alike I’m not sure what I’m making anymore. Or maybe all this just for future to have a color. And I will have moved to that other city. With a new bottle. Or a reminder at least. Who is to know.

EA Ramey is co-poetry editor for DIAGRAM and has work forthcoming or most recently appearing in inter|rupture, Cream City ReviewPhoebe, and Fence.