...not another cowboy...

The memory of your hand, imprinted now on my shoulder blade, is heavy, though the touch itself (twice, yesterday) was soft. They did this wrong, whoever it is who's responsible for doing these things, creating the circles in which these things are born. They made you different, and not for me. An oversight. (Foresight?). And if we are like you say we are (like this, you and me), you probably know this too.

This isn't an answer to anything, just a pause in the motions. I'll resume tomorrow, and think of something else.