Remove the dream of rolled-up rugs in a dark basement room where there are bars on the window, and take back the gifts we gave each other: luggage, a life-raft, and dark bicycles standing in the corner. Brush the lint from our backs, and what remains is the difference between you and deer sleeping in meadows of gentle breathing. On the drive home, your words, like gloomy moths, their wings spanning the horizons of the known world, conjured with the sullen certainty of dust, a spell the size of that world to take me down with them. Desires hovered and were lost between a dance toward oncoming lights, a faint tick, and a smear on the windshield. A deer moved nearer the road.