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I am thinking of a letter between I and J, and how long after you kiss a girl you become a lost name on the tip of her tongue, how long before she writes you into history that she slips up and dreams about leading you into a room with an hourly rate, drawn like a moth to one of those fake fireplace flames, fluttering like the orange paper blowing above the whirring fan. Drawn to the light, then, and not to the burning. I am wondering if everyone looks so pretty when you are within breathing distance, or if I have that all wrong, since if you back up far enough you can see the entire mountain silhouetted against the glacial flats, and maybe now that she is 1,000 miles away, she can appreciate the enormity of our regret, though not quite large enough to bend the ambient light as it passes between here and the moon. We were interrupted by a not-so-friendly whisper. A well-planned storm never spoils the moment like an unexpected breeze. Now, I think I am her faithless prayer, the kind of wish tossed towards a god you no longer believe.