There are misunderstandings that bruise, and misunderstandings that leave behind a strange tenderness.
To be read incorrectly is still, in some quiet sense, to have been read. Someone turned toward you. Someone made an arrangement of your gestures and called it understanding. The arrangement may have been partial, misplaced, beautifully wrong. Even so, it reveals the shape of another person reaching.
I have begun to suspect that many human relationships are built this way: on sustained approximation, on growing accuracy, and on the willingness to remain present to revision.
There are gentler ways to belong to each other, and this may be one of them.
M⟲
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