I am trying to tell you. On the way to the place, I tried to tell
you, and on the way from the place, I tried to tell you. I tried to
tell you when we first got there, and I tried to tell you when it
was almost time to leave. I tried to tell you in the dark—the
light. Once, I came close to telling you, but someone
interrupted.

When you are not around, I practice saying it. I repeat it out
loud and think of where we might be and what your face might
look like hearing it. All day at work I say it in my head. At
night, I fall asleep saying it and when I wake up I think that
today I will say it to you.

When I first see you, I think I am going to say it. Then I say it
to passing clouds, to the tree that grows sideways through
another tree.