We moved back from the trees, all vestigial traces and nondescript. Other places of the city are still covered in leaves, amber and rust, but not this street. Like you came out in the night and collected every leaf and disposed of them silently. In your fawn jacket and careful shoes. And I said I never get jealous, but I have that so much and sometimes I feel somber and sometimes frivolous but mostly abject. You said you always feel anxious so at least we are consistent in our emotions. And I haven't written to you in months, and my room is basically empty save for books in a corner, a rocking horse and my bed. Not that this emptiness is in anyway reflective of my general mood, the trees on my new street have leaves and stretch down comforting and warm. And there is wood panelling everywhere and my room no longer smells of the previous tenant, stale cigarettes and stale perfume.