I am staying up late because for the first time in a long time I am unsure of my ability to be alone. (confession 1) This is because I've realized that love must be out of my hands to be love, and I have done little else but handle it (2:and handle you)


I don't fear this vulnerability because in the melancholy I am not ended, only staring at the spaces
that mean only: I cannot control any Good that will come of me,
to me.
And Good seems to come only when it can unbuild the things it patterns in me with a wave of hand, gives and takes away in sigh purposefully reverently that exposes . The Buddhists were right that we are not Selves but Empties, filling out corners in a soft sort-of maybe. < In our finer moments there is so much space >
after the exertion and wonder winnows us out


unstrange? that Love seems to love me and its sighs move over my? space to lead me towards light(3)

I should be studying the Koppen Climate, so of course I am not. Instead I am studying the uneven ends of my fingernails and feel vaguely pleased that for a moment I thought the brush of fabric against my leg was my cat. The ghost-rub of her side.

A little misplaced, now, in wanting...to change things, sure they will change in a couple weeks of my resolve. If I do this, I will earn your second-glance. If I do this I will become the warm aloof that is The accessory. Where is my brand name beret and knit, Dulce fingerless gloves, and Coach printed Plato dangled by the fashionably Keroauc-esque scribbles? Be, attract, possess, detach, adhere, remove, abstain, allure. None of these words I can use in poetry. They lack a certain flare, a certain haunting quality. I want to haunt you. For both our sakes? For the sake of something else? Pour the sake into the cups I placed by the table. For the longest time I thought you liked this way. How do we ever explain our mistakes?