You were in Denver and I was in Denver. He was in Denver too. And she was in Denver and they were in Denver. And a baby was in Denver. At one point we were all in the same room, and at another point we weren’t. Everybody else was singing Sound of Music songs around a piano as if no one has ever suffered. When you read poems out loud, everything makes sense: like death may sit on a broken orange couch, but there is a green couch too that it will never sit on, that not even we sat on, and a couch won’t break if you never sit on it. I don’t know what you call those kinds of cookies, but they’re really good and I really want to keep eating them. I do know though what it feels like to be quiet, to be in the dark with you, to not change the lightbulbs. You may make a hat out of cardboard and put it on your head but I will still recognize you.