The calendar falls. Slips from the refrigerator in a tumble that leaves cracks in all my to do lists and uproots the stars in the satellite buzz of my skull. Monday, Tuesday, the days slide like overturned ink, not words but black blots that seep into pages and dye them silent. I stand by the phone tangled in wires and empty airwaves, bound up in unstrummed chords; my spine aches for your touch, c-c-curves from the sun, my head hangs heavy as a sunflower and my hands are forever underwater: writing songs in a key that isn't my element, and the light bends every note strained almost to breaking but never quite. Because to split open and spill an unbroken string of sound where your name fills the air like the ash of winter breath would be too easy. I come apart letter by letter.