1. Night. Obsidian slides on the islands of Hawaii. My grandfather’s cancer spots and the x-ray of his deflated lungs. His coffin two months later. Ebony keys under hands that are too dark to be called anything but burnt charcoal crystals, and Beethoven playing softly three floors down in my uncle’s apartment building — O Freunde, niche diese toen, sodern lasst uns angenehmere anstimmen und freundenvollere.
2. You. Your heart. Your mouth when you said you didn’t love me anymore.