Between the cups of tea and clinks of glasses,
the lines of pen we wrote when we were small.
The interlude from when I saw you last
and see you next; the rules I kept and didn’t know.

I started up the hill today, the grasses clipping at my legs.
The little houses there looked into me
I started to believe the things you mentioned.
The houses frowned. The grasses whipped.

I didn’t let them get to me, I drowned their judgement out.
(Though later I could hear them in between the subtle strips
of what who I was last night
and who I am next week.)

I don’t believe the things those little houses on the hills say:
they want me to abide in them forever.
Little houses do not want us having picnics on the moon.
They are afraid of being left between.

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