In the dream, we are strangers knee to knee on a train. It’s the most we ever touch. I still write about you. I still end up here. There is something to be said for a love that refuses to melt. A love stored in the freezer, in a ziplock bag. Stashed behind the ice cube tray. Always waiting to be pulled out. Willing to thaw, to forgive like spring, to pick up right where it left off. You, cradling a phone in the crook of your arm. Me, crying about produce. You call, and I answer. You say, “Do you know what an air traffic control room looks like? All those switches and buttons blinking? When I hear your voice, everything lights up all at once for me. Nobody else does that.” I don’t say anything eloquent. So we’re back on the train, with the knees, only this time you’re looking me in the face and I’m staring out the window. What do you think happens when love gets left out too long?
— Trista Mateer