The embarrassment comes from the reflection of ridiculousness, the mirror held before a visage tarnished by parchment and longing. It continues to feel required, a necessity born from an apologetic need for explanation, or perhaps it is little more than a signification sentry: Simply an obfuscation acting as an obstacle.
Put before and then put to bed, a reorganization becomes a threat: The desire for a dismantling, a shattering, the return of all to dust. The contents of a teacup dwindles and therefore it must be refilled, demolished, and then concocted yet again.
The embarrassment comes from the retraction of ridiculousness, the shame of it ever having been there in the first place. Who had seen its presence, consumed it as evidence of an idiot, scratched a sketch of mockery into the slot for which that memory would be kept forever? It begs for relief and is denied yet again: How silly would it be for something to feel complete?
Shelter it with shingles laid carefully above: The interconnectedness of a sentence, the imprisonment of accident, the uselessness of retention when all has fled from it in fear.