The continent composed of all the countries you have been in
without me is enormous. In it is a constant European summer,
light jacket weather, scattered rainshowers. The flowers, I do
not have the names for them, but they bend their heads to be
blessed, regardless. The country composed of the cities I’m in,
without you, is a holy country, where it is always morning and
the coffee scalding. In the streets, the people fan their hands
in the heat, examining the sky, they wonder when it will rain.