You got me to write a poem or poems anyway. You are perhaps a baby bird, though I am sparing of such a title as I am unprepared for hurt now. I do wish you lived next door. If you didn't like me I would leave you alone. Perhaps very occasionally I would take your bin around, but not so often that you would think I was attempting to make a point or inveigle you into my dreams of bins and neighbours and things. Sometimes, when the moon was high, we might meet outside in the cold and regard each other. You would not trust me, and would think of the noises you had heard, and I, of course, could not say otherwise. You would like me but not trust me. I would go back, deflated, to my routines. One day, despite your reservations, you would invite me to a river, and I would say yes. Both of us would be nearly dead, and there would be a waterfall, and we would both wonder why
it took so fucking long.