I. These record-breaking days of heat tell a story— your turn. Tell me a story, a story of why and a story of how: why you sink in the sand at the sea, how you are the unbreaker of my squarish heart, your hair circle-swept like mine but a boy's. Tell me that I'm smart as a whale. I woke you once with a ladybug that I found in a jar of honey, and once recovered, you said you'd never been more terrified. II. I'm thinking about foreign grammar that I've forgotten, probably forever, conjugations of French verbs. I want to prove something about passive voice, indirect objects and the French language, something I know to be untrue, though want it not to be. I want to tell you again about the stars. I want to show you Ursa Major for the first time, again. You were eighteen, and no one had shown you until I did. We looked up, not ruining things, just looking. We imagined, instead of a bear, a truck. Your old truck, your dad's that he took back when he kicked you out. You spelled the truck for me, the empty bed of it, and I imagined you lying in it, staring at the sky. We both stood near the bay, looking up in the dark, the distance between us chosen, palpable. We found the bear and left, letting codes in place for decades stay as they were then, as they are. III. My head for you is feathers not dust, like seashells intact but demanding sand. My heart for you is only wax. The moon is new; the tide is low. Go to the shoreline tonight, gather seaweed in your hands, and for dinner, bring it in clumps to the house where I am permitted to stay.