Left hand: callus, graphite, the memory of torque. Right hand: stem of a glass, the cloth edge, your wrist. I have been both rooms my whole life. The gold line is not a bridge. It is the nerve that won't stop firing between the two halves of what I am— one that builds, one that stays, one that knows the weight of a thing before it's made, one that knows the weight of a thing after it's said. Valentine, I do not bring you flowers. I bring you the hours. Every one I didn't spend here was spent making something that would let me sit across from you without apology. The candle gutters. The lathe is still. Somewhere between them my hands remember they belong to the same man.