What a way to care for you, when what I want is to care for you?
What a way to be thoughtful of you, when what I want is to be thoughtful of you?
What a way to be kind to you, when what I want is to be kind to you?
And fears of past well up in me in a torrent:
They flood over me;
They drown me sometimes.
And I don't know what to do with them: suppress them, pretend they're not there; imagine they're not real enough to be given the attention I give them?
But they won't be suppressed, and I can't pretend they’re not there, and they are so real.
And I can't hold these things back because I don't want to suppress anything from you, and I don't want to pretend anything to you, and I don't want anything with you that isn't real.
I want only to be open, and true, and real for you, and with you, and because of you, and for you.
You are truth to me, and with, and because of, and for.
So what do I do with them when I know they don't deserve my time, but claim my time?
I hope—hopelessly hope that you will cater to my weakness: make me special, allow me to think of my place with you—my exclusiveness. And so I don’t change.
Or I hope—hopefully hope that I can be better, that I can be stronger, show myself that these things are truly weaknesses, and jealousies, and overbearing sensitivities, and lack of experience, and lack of grownup-ness, and everything that only makes me want to be held by you, and cried on, and kissed, and stroked, and petted, and caused to grow, and licked, and pushed against, and played with, and pranced for.
Yes, pranced for, because that feels entirely special—untrammelled by the threatening history. That thing feels you and me, and only you and me, and that makes me secure, and wanted, and wanted more, and wanted more than history. And even though your tears don't come, and I can't feel I please you, and this can only be because it's just me, and only me now, and just me now. And I ache with the dreadful feeling of it, and it wells up in that torrent again, and drowns me, and floods over me, and I gasp beneath it, and am breathlessly overtaken by it.
Yet, even though all these things swirl me about, they are not what I feel for you—they are simply me in the face of the light of you; they do not describe how I feel when you prance only for me. They wither in the face of that delectable reality.
What a way to be wholesome for you, when what I want is to be wholesome for you?
What a way to love you, when what I want is to love you?
