I hide behind your ambiguity with you not to shield myself from hurt, I’m not so stupid as to fool myself into thinking this doesn’t and won’t hurt.
I hide behind your forced uncertainty with you to avoid blame, to keep the hurting we’re doing mine alone; to keep it a familiar self-inflicted wound.
To keep it. To keep you.
I’m not sure you would be under there if I unraveled all the equivocality. Not sure that isn’t who you are. Or I am. Or we are together. Not sure when my wishes can begin and yours will end.
Pretending to make-believe with you.
Pretending there’s-no-reality-for-us isn’t our choice.
Feigning naivety of my own vulnerable exposure, as though I’m not naked when draped with your maybe and probably and almost.
Twisting and turning in wish-you-were-mine is probably just like you holding me always.
Choking and strangling on make-me-yours is almost filling me up forever.
Letting you maybe love me in-between the last one that didn’t work and the next one who might because in-between happens to be now and that should be all I want.
If all I want is everything you have to give.
December 22, 2009