but Charlie I miss you and sorry people don’t say this enough. Recently I have been drifting from everyone like lovers leaving ports without worlds, with ships full of cargo, migrating from one shade of blue to another. Yesterday I sat on Shepley and smoked cigarettes thinking about how someone once said, if you wanted to stop a smoker, all you had to do was tell them to listen to her voice after years of the habit — how her voice-water had turned muddied by tar. There’s a certain blue that every poem should be about: the walking-home-barefoot blue, the I-still-miss-you blue, the all-of-this-won’t-be-here-tomorrow blue. I watched the gradient of the night. The colors of intangibility. The colors of loss as human connections dwindle away. The color of the night friends swam naked in June and someone drove us home with the Beatles playing, everyone laying their heads on their arms, as I watched their hair combing behind them through the rearview mirror.