The Cicadas Made Way for the Crickets

My mom's in town and I'm up late while she sleeps. I'm out on my front porch with its two hummingbird feeders and I'm thinking about blogs and identity and how much of ourselves we show other people--the little stuff and how much we do it to endear ourselves in ways that are and are not cool. I'm thinking about people that I've sent bits of the self to, and if I hoped in some dark little corner of me that they would be charmed and if that's okay, especially if in the general course of things they would never see me in those ways and maybe shouldn't as they were not mine to be dear to... or shouldn't be.

Then endearment and identity and how hard I've tried to matter to so many of the wrong people and how futile and how what hasn't loved me well-enough, enough or at all maybe shouldn't occupy a moment, a poem an anything, as I have a general disregard for those who need a lot of attention from people that don't really matter to them finally or shouldn't because how much time do we have for all of this matter after all? And about matter and endearment and how objects too, become storied and the stories make things matter and make it hard to take that circus scarf and donate it or that bear pencil holder or that thunderstorm on a t-shirt torn now and overwashed. It's hard to part with anything when everything becomes some key thing.

It's late. I'm being too serious. I should sleep.