Never a Mouse

One of these days, I should really get better at the game. Approach - avoid, keep your distance - make sure they doubt. Give them only enough to keep them wondering. Make them chase you. Be a fish. Be a fly. Be a piece of shiny paper. Anything but true. But I'm not looking for a cat. I don't want to be a mouse.

I want balls out honesty. If you like me, stick. You have no idea how much shit I can work through. If you don't, don't waste my time. I don't want such equivocation, and I don't want to be fed purely laudable treats. I want someone who will not only anticipate, but jump - naked, full out - into it, and talk through the fall. Maybe it could be something special...or a disastrous disappointment…but the convoluted confusion of not knowing what it was - what it could have been - is the most insidiously grey let down at all.

And maybe it is bad timing, and maybe for the most part all of the magic was real. But I never really understood the schism between what you said you thought, and what you didn't feel. You told me that I over-thought things - and this was intriguing when it was directed to the world and regarding books - but when it was about you and us -you walked. I watched you drive away…not giving back a second look. I want to know your narrative – I want to hear - the story; I want to know why what it was we had, didn't do enough for you to want to give up one thing - for me.

If I sound a little angry, forgive me - I am. I don't want this to be the end. And I am wracking my brain trying to figure out, why in spite of the fact that you didn't feel that you could love me back - that in my most longing moments, I still want to be your friend. You asked to see my soul and I showed you...and you revealed to me, part of yours. I wanted to keep looking...at you; you wanted to keep finding others instead. Everything you said you found in me, given up for the potential of a new curious body lying there, beside you in your bed; her making of it all still unexplored in your head.

Perhaps I should have roamed myself then; inviting another into my body and my self; to have sat here with a glass of wine, immersed in music, chatting musingly close beside me here…telling them all the things that I have told you - and touching them, as lovingly…as when I would touch you…But I suppose I have already realized that what I wanted was a little more rare - harder to find than just a body; the intricate soul, so few. There are others who can tempt me – and others that I can find; but I never wanted to trade the now with you, with what I could, next time.

Everyone loves a good mystery - until it becomes so trite that you figure it all out. The plot, recycled; the usual patterns even the words cannot disguise, and I am railing, at trying not to denigrate all the fond words to meaninglessness...and attributing confusion to ommissions and lies; but in the middle of the night when I wake without you beside me, I still contemplate how if it was so meaningful and special, that you still could have cared and said goodbye.

I am allowing myself confusion; poor choices of words, and a writing that seems to contain more rhyme than I would like; as I am moving through the need of letting go, and still feeling the desire to fight.