23 May 2011

Three responses

I've read enough books and lived enough life to figure why adults constantly write fairy tales. Whatever satisfaction and beauty they encounter in reality, no affair will ever end their longing for perfection (term for things my way).

I wanted things a certain way with us though I can only change so much and I sadly cannot change you. But you allow me a conversation, an afternoon, a full course meal. You seek me and desire things done with and only with me. I learned to look at these not as consolations, but the precise machinery of our relationship. Being with you has its indescribable high; being with you, each day, is a burden.

So you walking away is no different from me needing to be alone to attend to matters I equally treasure.

What made me capable of this kindness, you ask. To forgive a lack of care, not regretting confessing fondness unreciprocated, this tolerance of fleeting intimacy. Perhaps it is my knowledge of selfishness. When you say you need me, I understand how you need me to and that you need me to be.

How devastating it is to become a useless friend, worse an incompetent foe.

Dear love, I can only assert magnificence towards it—chasing facts, to be lost in fact. Some frown on the coldness consequent of such passions, but nothing can be more flattering than being observed without intention to use what's seen to please or manipulate, what a thought that someone bothers to look at you with absolute, honest attention.

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