I deleted your e mails the other day. I’d been saving them like lover’s notes, though self interest on both our parts is all that they’d contained.
Your poetry written for another, your stories of far flinging adventure, your pictures captured for your memory, well let’s let it be (yours)
I’d let you handle all the boundary work, mending the fence, stir the concrete, duct tape the edges.
It allowed me time to fall in love with your crafty craftsmanship all over again.
A new blanket sings the song of the divide as clearly as the respect and peacefulness of this time, but I’m sick of subdued passion. So maybe it will be games, seated opponents with differing strategies and subtle jabs instead of compliments, smiles for the challenge of coming together for connection and -not sharing affection.
