my best impression of a man bits of almost but not-quites, of not-quite remembrance, except when echoes of a shiver awaken dreams of dreaming my first almost-visit to a Virgin Megastore, delaying pleasure, in company of thoughts that shouldn’t be love-induced anxiety, or a mythos of grazing lips, chocolate-chip cookies, and the aftertaste of relationships in the future tense as I come, I realize I haven’t replied to Wayne yet