I left Washington state without my senses, and though all five were intact, I felt as if I'd been worn and then discarded like a blanket in the early morning. I soon tried consulting dictionaries and thesauruses, too, hoping to catch her home, hoping they'd hold her definition.

When she begins, aligning her arms upon the northern wind, I lie in wait for the word back from her outpost. She breaks a sweat. It's hot up there and I have not said yet into this walkie-talkie half of the things that I could. If I was so skilled, I'd construct the biggest fan that I could build and I'd use my cranes to point the breeze in her direction. (A boy trying trying at cooling off the angels, that lonely boy am I.)

Mr. William Shakespeare did namecheck her when he was writing his prose. He'd put her name in his rhymes, but not even once did he convey her whole being, not a single time. He must never have had one of those moments, like when I got her to smile. I didn't try at all, but when she looked at me she grinned like she'd just robbed the mall.

"You're as hot as the sun," I'd say.

She'd just laugh and respond, "Okay, I'm hot as the sun, you say." She stole it all and just walked away.

I know her town, but only through her loosened hair of brown, so I invent the remainder to my liking. There is a lake, though its dimensions do cause me a mistake, so I lose context in my daydream of urban planning. I name the streets. I name the texture of her cotton sheets. I'm incomplete and that's the father of my dreaming.

I looked her name up in the Bible, and it was there a few times in undigestable form, not in the way I would explain her: like how she hates when it's warm, and connected to that, how the hair mats to her forehead before a balmy mid-summer storm. And if she was here, by God, I'd show you, but all I've got is this phone. I'm all alone.