Something stringent, determined, purist keeps me from conjuring her. I still sit here though,
always me sitting here,
touching a keyboard, attempting to recollect (collect?) the words she did and didn't say to me and form those sentences out of the loose materials of smoke and tears.
Clutching at the corners of my terrible memory as it tries to shake me off like some bug from a sheet on a Midwestern clothesline.
Almost three years and she sits stubbornly in shadows while old country western singers make dream appearances like my mind is the Grand Ole fuckin' Opry.
