I’ve grown weary of the games that I’ve been playing. Of keeping my distance. Of my wandering attentions, affections. I’ve grown weary of my lack of emotion.
I spent the evening quantifying my lustful ways, asking three men (and one woman) the same questions. Seeing who was brave enough to play.
Only one of them kept my attention, his stories of summer.
Of boats and parks, long walks and,
“We didn’t drink until the third date.”
His comment on the meaning of 5 dates in, of 5 months later.
“I can’t answer that, except to say within the last 5 years , because things change-their meaning changes.”
“She took me for a bike ride.”
How, when I asked if he had a favorite word he asked,
“Does it have to be in English?”
I smiled, recalled to myself the story of how that was once my nickname. I filed it away with all the other things I choose not to say.
Funny, I try not to bore my muses, to instead devote my time to extracting stories from sighs and red wine. In the end he’s been the only one to ask, the only one who knows a thing about me. The only one to keep me wondering.
In the end, he’s just poetry.