I'm reaching out to you from haunted house land where the nights are longer than the hopeless distance between us. Daylight is a myth the old women taught me when I was a child, before they were taken by spiders and dust.
The spiders work on their webs. And I work on my poems and letters to you. And the sheets of paper are already yellowed by the time they reach you. And I imagine you running to wash your hands and face after reading my poems and letters, as if you just ran your hand along a dusty basement shelf, as if you had just crashed through the elaborate infrastructure created by generations of spiders.