We are not the three of us anymore. Now we're one, and one, and one.
But that's what everyone does: blames the way it is on the way it was on the way it never ever was.
Yes, she looks for me... good. Let her look for me to tell me why she left me, as I always knew she would; I had thought she understood, but hey have never understood and no reason that they should, but if anybody could... Finishing the hat, how you have to finish the hat, how you watch the rest of the world from a window, while you finish the hat; mapping out a sky, what you feel like, planning a sky, what you feel when voices that come through the window go until they distance and die, until there's nothing but sky...
And how you're always turning back too late from the grass or the stick or the dog or the light, how the kind of woman willing to wait is not the kind that you want to find waiting to return you to the night, dizzy from the height, coming from the hat, studying the hat, entering the world of the hat, reaching through the world of the hat like a window... Back to this one from that.
Studying a face, stepping back to look at a face leaves a little space in the way like a window, but to see... It's the only way to see.
And when the woman that you wanted goes, you can say to yourself, "Well, I give what I give"; but the women who won't wait for you knows that, however you live, there's a part of you always standing by, mapping out the sky, finishing a hat... Starting on a hat.. Finishing a hat... Look, I made a hat...
Where there never was a hat.