Things Rarely Get Fixed The Way They

And I Find Myself Saying, “it Wasn’t Really About Her.” And Finding It’s True. What Do You Mean?” Norah Asks. It Was About The Feeling, You Know? She Caused It In Me, But It Wasn’t About Her. It Was About My Reaction, What I Wanted To Feel And Then Convinced Myself That I Felt, Because I Wanted It That Bad. That Illusion. It Was Love Because I Created It As Love.

I've Lost Track Of Where Friendship Ends And Falling Begins. (this Is The Foolish Refrain Of The Hopelessly Devoted.) There Are Times I Want To Kiss You Midsentence. Undo The Not-doing With One Gesture.

But Isn't This A Dance? Isn't All Of This A Dance? Isn't That What We Do With Words? Isn't That What We Do When We Talk, When We Spar, When We Make Plans Or Leave It To Chance? Some Of It's Choreographed. Some Of The Steps Have Been Done For Ages. And The Rest -- The Rest Is Spontaneous. The Rest Has To Be Decided On The Floor, In The Moment, Before The Music Ends.

Every You, Every Me. Fractals. Fractures.

I Can Take Everything On Her Face At Face Value, And That's Valuable In A Friend.