You say you love me and yet, you iron the wrinkles and creases on my soul into freshly pressed disguises of perfection, something as alien to me as my real self is to you. Why do you you grind your love into tiny granules of pity and consolation that I can plug all my pores with, effectively barring all those floodgates through which the sweat of sensuality and/or anxiety can pour forth freely and drench me, washing away the layers and layers of composure.
I don't know what I want. Is it you? Is it the idea of what you once were but not anymore? Or are you merely a name and a game to fill up the vacuous holes in my life and body? I don't know who you are and I'm not sure it is you who I want.
But then again, I remain justified in my grand hopes for love - this one syllable tyrant of a word that has been constructed to prison my mind, and fed to me with every dream, every movie and every book. I'm not the worst for it, for in know that within the millions of possibilities that this word encompasses, I will build (and hopefully find) my type. Who or what could that be?
Again, I do not know, except for the towering expectations I have pitted against the extra-ordinarily ordinary notions of what it should be, could be, and if fate permits, would be. It would be the words hushed into silence for their meaning is already conveyed by the touch. It would be the maddening realization of someone uniquely unaware of how similar and dissimilar we are. It would be that marked comfort of a friend, the passion of a lover, the observance of an enemy and the competence of a rival. It would appear ordinary in every aspect except that it would be everything but ordinary. A revolution so subtle and gradual that the process is discovered only in its aftermath. The grave-diggers would have never dug deeper as those questions that will seek to unearth the bones of what I once was and re-animate the Frankenstein's monster into a world at once ugly and beautiful and alive.