forced to dizzily write last friday night. one image stuck:

midnight hair sweeping.

midnight here being less twelve o'clock and more uncharted lonely stretches of dark, dark, night. he can't sleep. she's not there. in order to oust her from his abode, and in order to placate his weeping platitudes, and most of all to sleep, he sweeps her hair from the floor. the cold embers of an unrequited love. fossils of another evening when kisses came easily and her hair left itself to bear witness to this never to be anniversary.

maybe he's right. maybe there's no need to feel humililated or embarassed about honest energy spent loving the wrong person.