February 8, 2013: 5:47pm

Still feels a little raw, but so it goes. Back to Saisons du Coeur next week

She calls when drunk or bleeding or exhausted,
Hashing and rehashing aging wounds and failures;
Mostly accidents of habit, truth be told,
But painful and so laden with regret for both of us.

There's something underneath that's seething somewhere.
Early on, I thought that I deserves or needed
To know what that was; but I can't expect from her
An answer she apparently can't find... or maybe offer.

I like to think in prouder moments that I could hear
And understand and judge most any criticism
Brought to bear on me, my character and flaws;
But I know all have limits to self-knowledge and to pain...
It asks too much to think that she is different.