I sat down told myself You, girl, are gonna write about something beautiful. Because at this rate you’re gonna make yourself sick writing pain. And I thought intimate thoughts. Thought about her. The world’s most delightful catastrophe. A girl with nothing but commas a run on sentence that made me laugh until my chest ached. An unregrettable heartbreak. I thought about the curve of a hip and lively fingers. And a head bent over a guitar. And a voice, low and facile. Pied piper voice. I know beautiful things. I know the swish of a tail against carpet. The rush of heated water into a bath. The feeling of fingers running through mussed hair. The press of a body at rest against my side. I want and am afraid of all this simple beauty. There feels something confessionary in admitting that I am moved to distraction by the smell and weight of a new book, by the casual smile of a stranger in response to mine, that I am overtaken by memory at the smell of burnt toast. I am not a fan of toast. But when it burns, I breathe, and I see an old man who loved me in a kitchen, burning toast. I tell you, while many days come when I am afraid to open my eyes, to move my body and rejoin life, moments come, simple as sin, and I would bottle them if I could. So simple. Each a joyous heartbreak. The near hush of socked feed on wooden floors. The turn of a head.