the uneven redundant bricks, the long line of indoors.
now sitting on a delicate story-like bench
nailed solidly into sand.
easier for her to feel when I am in her loyal mind.
impatience with repitition. church bells, again.
simply alone and savoring.
It wasn't my fault.
I have nothing to do with it.
I will not take responsibility
for her desert and her winding clocks.
for her own habits and her love.
she's on my wall, in my closet
and less important than we both realize.
And she's not mine.