You came in the form of a year. 2017 to be precise.
You were not one or the other of its happenstances.
You were the sum of its parts.
You had faces. Many faces.
Janus-faced you oversaw a conspiracy that is also called a year.
In the life. Everyone has them.
They are not anomalies.
The are compressions.
Collections of things.
I need you to fit neatly in that year, a year. So that I might rationalize that you are behind me. Past.
Yet, I still see you. I see you around 5am every morning.
You creep into my thoughts and spur me from sleep.
You are looking back at me. I can make out your visage well enough to describe it.
I would like to describe to myself — and others — so as not to forget what you look like and what you have taught me.
Betrayal, you are friend to opportunism.
You do not take the things we only think we have done or made. Pride would lessen the accusation to supportability if that were to be your only fault.
You take the things that we make and do, yet fail to protect doggedly.
You take the things that perhaps only you know are not subject to vigilant oversight.
It can be that you ‘commissioned’ those things, but not necessarily.
It can be that you were very close and even helped to make.
You can indeed be the co-author to things you later wholly usurp.
You invite cruel self-doubt.
A wondering of whether what was there to be taken was even there at all.