I do not understand you,
your wants,
needs,
aspirations,
or fears.
I suppose you want me to give you everything;
but with an air of resentment;
as if you owe me something.
I suppose you want me to tell you a million entertaining and amazing stories,
but leave out just enough,
to maintain some unreal and foolish air of mystery.
I suppose you want me to come and save you,
to be there for you at every beck and call
but let you do things yourself to maintain independence
or dignity.
I may never call out to you for myself,
or express loneliness,
to avoid being needy,
or obsessive,
and yet my rugged independence is:
foolish,
childlike,
******* stubborn.
The consistent contradiction that surrounds me
leaves me speculating about you.
About your reasons.
More than i speculate on the origin of the stars;
more than i speculate on the meaning in life;
more than i speculate on the existence of god.
More than these things,
you leave me depraved,
and wanting more.