He was a man now, no escaping that.
We both were grown, in spite of ourselves
and we knew better, knowing ourselves
and knew worse, too.
We knew of worse.
Which is the why of the affair:
why the late nights
desperate fumblings and driving sleepily through the fog.
Why anything, really?
Because we all need a reason to step outside ourselves
to inhabit the other for a moment
to see ourselves from the other side
as though we retained all that dear perfection
as though we owe nothing and are owed nothing
but give ever more freely
because the worst was, for the moment, behind us fading fast
and the grown up illusion of better bound us in our headlong fall, driving
blind into the morning
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