I haven't written about you. Or the sun in Quito, kind of like the sun here: sometimes yellow-morning; sometimes dim and blurry inside clouds; sometimes absent as I have been from Santo Domingo.

Oh, I haven't written you into sentences that say 'missing.' That say it with a bird's tender voice resting on the Esmeralda sand; or warm footsteps upon streets on the way to a room with books.

I just haven't, you see. And today I will not write either. Either write you into sentences or sentence myself to write about you even in one word. What word? Indeed!
I almost could, though. I almost thought that I did - carving longing into letters that form poems, one and one and one upon another - but you left again so soon, and I just haven't written about you.