It was not something that could be said or felt; it was merely something that desired to be named. There was little to say except that the wound did not figure after there was a name assigned; it floated around, in the air, the dream where it had gone to stay so fragile, so pitying – broken by the calling out in the night, that sound that appeared to reach nowhere, except the darker night, the night after the night. It was an oath that could only be broken in its abstractness, something that would function as a label for the purpose of – what exactly? I did not see you there.