You lose friends to bothdeath and unusually livelywithdrawal, as well as givesome up, as anticipated,to misunderstanding. Youleave those you assuredyou would not leave and,too, people have leftyou in silence and withoutreason but presumablybecause of your intensity,which you have long heardfrom friends, never lovers,for whom it was the draw.When you leave you rarelythink about those left, soperhaps it is like that forthose who leave you:typically no story, withevery tensile explanationpartial, each narrativeconvenient, and changing.You reserve the secretsof theirs you remember,pray occasionally for theirfamilies, and praise silentlysome whistle of generosityyou witnessed. You forgetthe contours slowly, inthe long second leaving,neutrality a structureyou learned to glamorize,the way you have come toimagine doors as rectangular.Under limits of the boxyentry, you think of citiesas grids, describe a bird asthe tint of ink, forgettingthat ink can be any color.