September 1st, Year of the Moon

I miss Robby, but in what form, I do not know. I look at his name, as I have just written it, and it seems strange. As if I have never before seen it, or pronounced it. As if I have invented it.

He now lives in Portland, Oregon. Distance has not managed to erase the memories that remain. Time has fared no better. It is these memories that make me feel so alone.

I understand that a complication arises only when a feeling is given too much credit, and a thought is completely ignored. The opposite produces the same effect. Must there always be a threat, for the intensity of truth to be revealed?

What I mean to say, what I should confess, is that every man that came after Robert was chosen out of fear. It manifested as something that made it difficult to identify as such, but it ensured that no one could intimately know me. That alone had the ability to protect me from permanent damage. Nothing could reach the core. It was superficial abrasions.

I have been unkind to love. I have been wrong in my approach, even when a hand was willing to show me the way. But a hand is not a heart, and a heart is no good when it is silent, and silence often lies.

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September 1st, Year of the Moon

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