I Thought I Was Being Loved Because

A Postcard. Neat Handwriting Fills The Rectangle. Half My Days I Cannot Bear To Touch You. The Rest Of My Time I Feel Like It Doesn’t Matter If I Will Ever See You Again. It Isn’t The Morality, It’s How Much You Can Bear. No Date. No Name Attached.

Water Is The Exile, Carried Back In Cans And Flasks, The Ghost Between Your Hands And Your Mouth.

Men Had Always Been The Reciters Of Poetry In The Desert.

Women Want Everything Of A Lover. And Too Often I Would Sink Below The Surface. So Armies Disappear Under Sand. And There Was Her Fear Of Her Husband, Her Belief In Her Honour, My Old Desire For Self-sufficiency, My Disappearances, Her Suspicions Of Me, My Disbelief That She Loved Me. The Paranoia And Claustrophobia Of Hidden Love.

That's One Of The Great Sadnesses Of Any Life - Knowing What You Know Now And Then Remembering What You Did Not Know Then.