The morning heaven's cybercafe opens, you're among the first

who line up outside, nostalgic for the days when you actually

paid with a coin from the heavy foreign handful in your pocket,

always more than seemed fair for ten minutes.

When you sign on, my instant message service creaks like a door's hinges

not oiled enough to admit a ghost. I don't remember

choosing the setting, and changing it would be far easier

than erasing the same sound from door or bone. But I don't.

We talk, through our fingers, of everyday things:

How hard you find it to dress for the weather

in heaven this week. How, at my office, birthday cakes now come

from a bakery you never tried but would have loved.

I press the video button in vain, wanting to know without asking

whether you carry tissues in the coins' old place in your pocket

in case of tears as we type. I keep the light off, the brightness up,

so I can be sure both our faces are glowing.