Again, just when I think it’s safe to stick my head up out of my hiding hole, she posts a poem that seems like a response to something I posted, stirring up questions that are even more disturbing if it is true.
Ever since last summer, I’ve always pondered the possibility of a trap, as if baiting me into making a move I might regret – such as the one I made on her birthday.
Is she trying to get other people to believe I am haunting her, when in fact I am not? Or is all this just my reading into the whole thing something that isn’t there?
I would like to think again that there is a conversation going on between us, two scribes trying to make sense of a world, using language few others have the ability to use, only I suspect that’s pure fantasy, too, wishful thinking, a rabbit hole that is too dangerous to descend into.
Again, I think back to that meeting with my two owners after she accused me of stalking, and the advice they gave me about ceasing to post poems that she might perceive as being about her.
It’s like feeding feral cats. If you stop feeding them, they will go away.
The owners had seemed as startled by the poetry exchange as they had about the accusations against me.
As pointed out previously, the tone of her poems has changed drastically over the last month or so from the passionate love affair to deeply bitter, with a few pot shots apparently sent in my direction as if she needed someone to blame.
Deep down, I want all this to be bullshit, and that I am reading into her poetry things that are just not there.
I’ve asked my Cyber Nanny to look over the collection of poems she and I have posted over the last few months to determine if there is a connection.
Meanwhile, I need t hunker down even deeper and try not to provoke any response, even though at the same time I am reluctant to lose the tenuous connection if it actually exists – some thread that allows us to continue to communicate – a hopeful, but ultimately frustrating hope, I think.
All this said, I think she continues to hope for the best on her side, trying to cling to the not-yet-lost lust for power, and would rather dance with that collection of deadbeats than not get invited to the dance at all.
The changing tone of her poems scares me a little in that regard, going from something almost tender, back to a defiant arrogance as her world teeters on the edge of possible collapse. She must be looking around for a place to land if it does.
And I have to wonder from some of these poems, if she still considers me the man most responsible for her demise.
“You’ll never get me,” taking on an alternative meaning if this is the case.
One rumor suggests she might be making a leap to a Spanish- language newspaper.
Someone from that paper told me they are coming up with an event scheduled for next week. No doubt, she will need a reference from the old office to accomplish this, and no doubt, our former temporary boss will be more than willing to give it.
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