.  .  .

Perhaps it was the only way to create the necessary distance between us.

.  .  .

No. But I try, because the alternative is so unbearable.

.  .  .

In the backyard, on the morning of the Fourth of July, her back to me, hand outstretched towards one of the stray cats.

.  .  .

She looked so young, though that later proved illusory.

.  .  .

Oh, yes. In that moment, at least. Though on the whole not so much, I suppose.

.  .  .

Nothing, at first. And later, so far as I could divine: curiosity, anger, resentment, distress.

.  .  .

Ease, perhaps. That which I am least able to offer.

.  .  .

As though I have lost my family; supplanted.

.  .  .

The dogs most of all. The small brown face at the window still calls to me when I come home, but of course I have no answers for him.

.  .  .

Yes, amazingly.

.  .  .

Wildly unadvisable, I know.

.  .  .

I wish I could say.

.  .  .

In truth I can see no end to it.

.  .  .

Something for money, and a puppeteer, or so they tell me.

.  .  .

Doesn’t it?

.  .  .

In some moments, yes.

.  .  .

Like a stone sinking in my chest, so that I long to flee my body.

.  .  .

No, never.

.  .  .

Perhaps, someday. Though the fall through my eyes rips the words from my tongue, and I cannot say when the view may grow less vertiginous.

.  .  .

Yes, of course. Yes. Still. Always. Yes.

- Kleine Fliege