The words left unspoken; the cherries atop the trees. They start bearing fruit in their fourth year. Your voicemails are magnificent, I wish I had more of them. To collect, to enjoy, to savor on grey, solid cold days. Inferences that don’t make sense. Tense phone calls, ending abruptly, then you call back again and apologize but you’ve already been forgiven. Because that’s just how this works, that’s just how this works. Don’t you know it?