one face bleeds into the next. One lover might as well be another. One crush relived, refined, revisited until I have sorted myself out. So this is not about you ultimately. As my memory of it fades I wonder how it could have swelled to fill up all the space. This balloon of otherness buoying me up against the drag and drown of a long and enduring relationship.
I see you again and I am not undone by you. I am tight wound and contained. I do not need you, but I like you anyway. In other circumstances it would be nice to have you around but tonight I could take you or leave you. You, him, the one before and the one before that. You are the necessary parade. I watch you leave with them and I hope you will not speak about me. I hope you will leave me undamaged as I leave you undamaged. This thing is just practice and play. The conversations about books and art and ideas are the currency that we will deal with in the long term. I build this play house on the firm sure ground of my own relationship. What we plant together may turn to weed or flower. We will pick what we grow but know now that it was planted in the sunlight and at a very sweet time.