We should make cyanotypes together sometime soon. Let me know when. I’ve heard it’s a good thing to do when you get lost in the blue murk of living. Last week there was an electrical fire at your house. I arrived to find orange flames lapping out of the open window. Like a dog. A wave at the shore. There is water everywhere I turn. My life keeps painting itself blue. When I take the laundry out of the washer and lay your shirt out to dry, the excess water I wring out is blue. A cyanotype is supposed to only know itself as blue. But a wet cyanotype blurs differently—opens itself to green, beige, yellow. The murk. All of the murk, everything awake underneath the sun. I love you. That’s all I had to say. Let’s make cyanotypes together. Let’s make the kind that turns blue into anything but itself, lapping at everything we knew, like that electrical fire. Like a dog standing outside in a rainstorm, all alone, and instead of beckoning it back into the house, we step outside to greet it.

Sometimes I build things up just to pull them apart, watch them fall. I get lost on purpose, on winding walks that start in midafternoon and continue through morning. Entering buildings at whim: art galleries, the CVS by your place, that coffee shop. I tell you things I don’t want you to know. Follow my mouth right into the mousetraps I left for myself to find. One night, we sit in your kitchen and play games of Jenga. Or we try to. Look, I built the tower, I say, and then knock it over on purpose. I can’t help it. I tell you I’ll pull it back together, like I always do, that I’m familiar with undoing the break. But the Jenga pieces have scattered far across the floor: under the table, through the gaps of the floor vent covers, out the open window and picked up by a pigeon that just happens to be passing by. So maybe it can’t be undone. Recently I’ve been doing my best to knock over everything, even the things I love most. Especially the things I love most—myself included. You reach under the table to gather the remaining pieces, build an imperfect tower from what’s left. Look, you say. I can’t, I say. I can’t love incompletion. Just try, you say. And it’s you asking. So I try.