if there were no doorways, we would still have stories, and if there were no paths to walk there would still be the steps summer takes to get to autumn, and the sunrise that gloats over the mirrors of leaves as she passes by. if there were no windows there would be the shapes drawn in mid-air by your hands or mine, not quite a pane of glass but through it I still would see the amnesiac morning, honey and sudden, and perhaps the impression of breakfast. if there were no rivers my mother would still tell me about them, and lands would still be in parallel, we would still be looking at something across the way and desire it more. even if we did not speak, there would still be language, intervened in-between ice cubes, descending branches, nights that peel away from the skin. if not one then the other. if not now then the promise of more time coming.