An unfinished love letter in the glove compartment sits heavy in the heart of investigator López.
My heart is yours forever, querida,
and I spend every day….
The body on the floor is an endless
night and his mind swells with doubt
like a metal balloon.
Four murders, each one a line through 
unseen space and time converging toward
the center of an unseen mind.
The killer deconstructed into parts.
…and every night thinking about the next time I can see you.
The heart constructed from broken parts.
In the nightwind’s infinite turning, from dust caught in the swells, he divines the essence
of a face and a scratched name.
Pale madness emerges in contest with the moon.
The lights go out and the hardwood floor
holds the weight of her dead multitudes;
a glimpse of eternity in a sliver of time.
Lights on. 
He's at the confluence of causes.
Who? What? When?
Cool air from the broken window.
The thousand agonies of the glass on the floor.
Signatures of things he is here to see.
Querida, do you think of me?