he doesn't speak crypto and can't find this place, but i can and i can

there is some line drawn from thing to thing.  like a mnemonic device, in which you picture the next thing literally hanging onto the foot of the last until you've a whole chain linked up, from elephant to telephone to bucket.  the boots i tend to wear on days that turn out rainy, they fill with water from the sole, making cold buckets out of each my feet.  and hanging on the crook of that, how we sold the van.  but how we used to crawl into the backseat together whenever there was something to parse out, how the back seat of the van used to be a confessional, anything-goes space and i would sometimes hold his head in my lap while the pain came and went.  i wonder if we hadn't gotten rid of the van if our love would have survived this year.  because we could have known what was around us.  the next is something delicious i've forgotten now.  and finally, just whether it's too rainy to be empty or not, the boathouse, would it have seats available.

i've woken up and thought about what day it is and what that means.  saturday, gentle enough.  i made my bed, closed the window, climbed out.  now i've got a full cup, but i am listening to a sad song, one which is very true.  i've had doubts this morning a few, about this perceived cooling, that scheduled, my best friend who has gone south to haiti without a return ticket.   sometimes a cry is like throwing up, here it comes and just out and you feel better.  maybe that's what it is.  i'll switch over to the light, to the smile on your face.  warm sweet coffee does feel good.