Well You'll Always Worry

Don't worry. I won't turn into a blurry and cautious version of myself quite yet. Well I won't pretend it can't happen. I suppose we must keep the probabilities and the possibilities squarely within our narrowed lines of vision.

There was this time when parts of me were in love with you. Not all of me! No, that's reserved for someone who has never and will never exist. I've squared with that, his non-existence. But back to you. It was the swingset situation, the back and forth delicious humanness of you that attracted these parts of me. My eyes would follow your sinewy limbs as they contracted and pumped inches away from mine, and my innards would positively ache for the closeness of you. And you would sing, "I want you" like Bob Dylan when I asked you to. Which, God, was as close to always as people can get.

And my mind...Oh, I won't pretend like parts of her weren't enamored as well, the way you could braid words into your own brand of intoxicant, and my tongue would twist with the desire to repeat them, to give them a healthy breath of fresh air outside the contours of your mind, to etch them into my forever maker and make you immortal ("You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.") But parts of her (my. mind.) could see the dark alleys, the illogical mazes in your words. Well of course they were still attractive, even more so for their obvious impossibility, but I knew that I could never wrap them around myself with any sort of certainty. And it's always about me after all, for all my listening and strong attempts at understanding the whereabouts of your emotions.

I've made myself tired here. The words and the memories. I've exhausted them, but my pretty funny little brain doesn't know it. She keeps producing new words and phrases and stories from the chewed up, spit out memories of us, and she latches onto each new moment like a starving parasite. I'm not sure exactly when she started needing you, and I doubt, for all of your painful stories, if any she has quite wrapped you around herself like I have. Hmmm, what a joke on me, isn't it?

The funniest part is that I deplore those girls. I separate them from myself as much as humanly possible. The groveling and the "I am not complete without you inside me", but for whatever disgustingly dependant reason, I've had no qualms about becoming her. For you.

It was only for you, but it isn't anymore, and oh lucky me. It's different now. A new him maybe? Not the intesity of you, obviously, but the sinewy limbed desire is there like a motherfucker. And fuck it all if no matter what my ENTIRE him remains elusive and I am always unable to see him for the undesirable faces that fill my consciousness.