Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

When we first met, you said you hoped to write a place as yet unwritten, maybe here, the last of the café’s lunch crowd clearing out with a soft ceramic clink and spray of light  through glass to glaze your dark cascade of hair. It’s not Manhattan, after all: it’s not a place for public life, yet here we sit with much between us still unspoken, each unfamiliar blossom yet to bloom. One Saturday I lingered in the park not far from your apartment, the faint perfume of evening primrose floating through the dark  with petals cool as rain against the skin, the season still unchronicled, but you had packed your bags and flitted back to Brooklyn, from what, and to what end, I never knew.