I don’t even think of this all weekend but sometime on Monday I start dreaming of you and books and grass so sharp it cuts into my feet. Baguettes as long as my arm and little tubs of butter, warm and golden as the sun, lying between us. At the exact mark when you climb over me I realize it’s not a dream but a memory. Shaded, everything is dark now. Sometimes I am filled with a heaviness that weighs more than my body. Tomorrow I’ll come across a foxglove and break into tears. Little pieces of me will be left behind at the spot, across the park, near that one CVS which we frequented. Maybe you’ll stumble upon them, pick me up and remember to call, or you’ll step on the pieces without noticing and that’s what I would deserve.