Nurture—the self and the other. Return to the loamy soil, retreat, be frugal. Lie dormant. A kind of dormacy. Recover. (On the walk I think I would describe it in a different way than I have before, that I have abandonment issues—irrational and acute, catching me in the kitchen, in the shower, on the street. A trembling as I pass certain intersections. When a name comes up in conversation.) 

I would at least like to become a fond memory—but I am worried that when you come here it is only because you are afraid. 

Grey squirrel runs across the power line. I have started adding Borax to my laundry. Watercolour paintings line one bookcase—I don’t know what to do with them just yet. Wonder if one of them I should return. Or just put away. Switched the pothos above my desk out for a spider plant, healthy, flowering, with trails of tiny offshoots, little defined root bunches, like delicate scrunched up fingers. I heard a voice outside, just now—I stood up, to get a better look. 

After what you told me my eye catches whenever someone passes the window on a bicycle. I do not wish to see the day when there are two. 

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