There you are. With your rough fingers and gentle touch. You're a walking paradox, a hypocrite. Make me laugh and topple me down to the ground when we take walks in the park. Make me cry as if my life has ended over a small mistake. Blame me, fight, curse. Hug me as if it was never my fault. Push me away, pull me back in. As if I'm just clay in your hands.
There you are, with your high-achiever degree. With your big words and fancy English. With those conversations on the couch that turn into playful arguments. We punctuate each other's sentences with "no, that wasn't my point" and "wait, listen, you're wrong about that" or "okay, fine, maybe that's true but what about...". You read my poetry. I come home to find our bathroom window painted with your favourite verse.
All that football gibberish you watch on TV. Screaming intermittently at the flat screen. And you sneak into the kitchen to steal a taste of dinner. Feedback. Too little salt, a little more olive oil. You grab a handful of lettuce and crush it into a bowl and toss a quick salad. You tickle me and steal me back on to the couch to share the snack. You wait for me to say it tastes good, but of course, I don't allow you that pleasure. Not when you pretend my food is terrible just to annoy me.
Your eyes are kind, even when you don't smile. But they take on a hardened glaze when you look at a stranger. You are so shy, so unfriendly, that sometimes I wonder how we ever got along. How did you, the one who finds it so difficult to offer a stranger a smile find me, ready with a grin whatever the case, among all those people? How did you seek me out? Or did I force myself into your life, like I do every day? Did I just walk over to you and say, "hey, mister, look at me. Take notice of me." Yes. That is what happened, isn't it? Does that mean we compliment each other?
Your arms become my shield. Your body prevents mine from ever being touched in a crowded place. You take me to the raunchiest bars, the most unfriendly streets, the dangerous yet fascinating parts of the city. You know my senses feast on those forbidden things, so you take me. But your eyes are always on the look out for danger. Your reflexes are always quick enough.
Why do you do these things? How do you read my mind this way? I know you do, even when you pretend not to. I know your pride, I am proud too. I know you can tell I have let down my guard. I know you know that I'd never admit it to you. We have misunderstandings. We squabble like children. I throw things at you. You slam doors. And you come back, like a lost dog, to find me sobbing in the bathtub with the shower and my clothes on. We forgive, even when we don't forget.
Now tell me this: where ARE you? I haven't found you yet, met you yet. I don't know where you've been hiding or why. I don't know when you'll show up, I don't know if you ever will. I don't know anything. But I sit here, daydreaming, as if our lives are already entwined.
There you are, with your high-achiever degree. With your big words and fancy English. With those conversations on the couch that turn into playful arguments. We punctuate each other's sentences with "no, that wasn't my point" and "wait, listen, you're wrong about that" or "okay, fine, maybe that's true but what about...". You read my poetry. I come home to find our bathroom window painted with your favourite verse.
All that football gibberish you watch on TV. Screaming intermittently at the flat screen. And you sneak into the kitchen to steal a taste of dinner. Feedback. Too little salt, a little more olive oil. You grab a handful of lettuce and crush it into a bowl and toss a quick salad. You tickle me and steal me back on to the couch to share the snack. You wait for me to say it tastes good, but of course, I don't allow you that pleasure. Not when you pretend my food is terrible just to annoy me.
Your eyes are kind, even when you don't smile. But they take on a hardened glaze when you look at a stranger. You are so shy, so unfriendly, that sometimes I wonder how we ever got along. How did you, the one who finds it so difficult to offer a stranger a smile find me, ready with a grin whatever the case, among all those people? How did you seek me out? Or did I force myself into your life, like I do every day? Did I just walk over to you and say, "hey, mister, look at me. Take notice of me." Yes. That is what happened, isn't it? Does that mean we compliment each other?
Your arms become my shield. Your body prevents mine from ever being touched in a crowded place. You take me to the raunchiest bars, the most unfriendly streets, the dangerous yet fascinating parts of the city. You know my senses feast on those forbidden things, so you take me. But your eyes are always on the look out for danger. Your reflexes are always quick enough.
Why do you do these things? How do you read my mind this way? I know you do, even when you pretend not to. I know your pride, I am proud too. I know you can tell I have let down my guard. I know you know that I'd never admit it to you. We have misunderstandings. We squabble like children. I throw things at you. You slam doors. And you come back, like a lost dog, to find me sobbing in the bathtub with the shower and my clothes on. We forgive, even when we don't forget.
Now tell me this: where ARE you? I haven't found you yet, met you yet. I don't know where you've been hiding or why. I don't know when you'll show up, I don't know if you ever will. I don't know anything. But I sit here, daydreaming, as if our lives are already entwined.
