To be discovered here. To be scrutinized. To be told that it is too much. (I’m at home, I was asleep, your own dog woke you.) To be told to be quiet. To be examined. To be responsible for something that does not belong to you. To be told that you are being watched—in a space that is not private but that is really not for you. To be responsible for what has been said regardless of intention—to be responsible for saying even sweet things. To be angry that your boundaries were not respected, and then to disrespect boundaries. To assume you have a place here. (If you remember, you gave it up.) To look back, and to dig, and to hurt yourself, and then to make demands. And to be surprised that you could hurt me with your own carelessness! How immature that I was hurt. I took the poem down. I took down the sweet poem about a moment that we shared in early December. And then I put it up—a sweet moment returned to us. And now it’s gone again. What happens here is what happens here. Dreams and delusions, poorly framed, misreported. Haze and uncertainty. It’s usually just for me alone—a kind of echo. A working echo (a productive one). It is not my fault if you come and go. 

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