cold front

I awake to eyes already staring at a ceiling. Blue eyes: not mine, upturned, unsleeping. I try to ignore their stare where it is focusing, unflinching: decidedly away from mine. I try to change the subject, try to shift feelings to my slight complaints, instead of starting, patching, speaking of some yesterdays’ revealed mistakes.

I try to change the subject, try to shift your feelings to my complaints, but I’m diverting clearly distracting, filling our airspace with my cluttercares, that, although possibly captured in the present, are passing without effort to not-even-theres. I’m treading lightly on your toes: an ever-so-slight unjust mistreatment. Do you believe all that I say? Are my confusion tactics viewed as deception?

I think, I question, won’t ask aloud, if I’m treading too heavily in your mind. I mean to, didn’t mean it, at least not in this way at this time. But lo and behold! A brusque casualty. Eye contact takes so slight a move. But given the parameters and the circumstances, I can’t say I’m undeserving, or that I don’t approve.

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