In your dream, I should be spinning slowly, a pink plastic ballerina standing on your 45.
I am at my best in darkened, lip-biting moments, pretending at half-lidded eyes and smooth convex inches. When your words get caught in my throat. Because I always get what I want, except for when I mean it.
Like how you are all only ever in love with me when it is the same as a lie: during sex, or when I have given the last of my chances and am leaving, or in hindsight, or from far away. As though I have been elected the patron saint of what might have happened. In its own way this is so much easier, the adult equivalent of pulling my hair and running away, giving you the rest of recess to pull the wings off flies and me a story to tell my friends over juice boxes. But in most other ways it is like trying to get out of the funhouse through the rotating barrel, never knowing where my footing is going to be next. And while I don't know what I'd do with it if it were sincere there are times that I think I might relish the challenge. Which is not an invitation.
I am still not the builder of bridges you think that I am, but I will continue to take your lack of guidance to mean that you like to be surprised.
And if I ever got myself a you? I know exactly what I'd do.
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