I remember sitting in your kitchen watching you at your best a girl at rest. How you couldn't find the cork screw so we just used a knife and how you read the label in fluent french. Your accent was so nice that i imagined us in Paris ten years later husband and wife. You were pregnant with our first, you'd call it max or phillipa, boy or girl, about to burst. And i recall the text you sent me when you typed out just my name twenty times it all rhymed. A desperation unsustained.