cyclic, until now. i see the pattern. funny how it is that the only time i truly see it is right before i break it; shatter it, ruin it. there must be some meaning in that which bears thought. some day.
skeins undone, loose threads, flapping in the breeze of intent, no more pretending there is good reason. all good reason fled long ago. in the face of secrecy and shame, in the occasional admission of guilt and blame, in the way that, when you aren’t thinking, words like threat, risk, and fear lay in the exchanges; unending worry and sidewise accusation that can no longer be born.
undeserved and finally unwilling. a year and a half, if you cannot know it by now, it is not a thing to be known by you.
like me, obviously.
obviously.