Terrors of the waking, existential variety are what keep me up nights.
I know no pursuit, no entrapment. No attachment, in fact, at all.
I drift through life as I do my dreams: aimlessly, dispassionately, at turns bemused and bewildered, beset by a sense of inevitable end.
Ends*,
so soon and so frequent.
Forays into fuller living are inherently half-hearted -
self-fulfilling prophecies of loneliness.
I am never quite at ease in relationships, always looking out for new anxieties to be had, faking a brave face for any you have.
You. Whenever I write what comes out is a love letter (of some kind)
addressed to you, but without the proper postage
words that never hit home, that never ring true
words, half meant or never spoken.
I play-act at devotion, and, that mask falling away, affect grievous emotion.
It's not who pushes whom, but mutual magnetic repulsion.
We turn around and around, looking each other over until we each settle on a face that drives us apart in perfect unison.