I don't know what it is that you want from me.
I can see you're thinking about it right now and all you want to do is to take me by the hand yell at me until I get it right, but I never will.
You seem to have forgotten something, something vital and of importance. I don't share your need for everything to be right or wrong. I only need to exist.
The thing is, dear, that I never craved your attention. I merely hinted that I wouldn't mind it. You started a war when you first looked upon me, and I wonder; why am I the victim? Haven't I been here before? Haven't I gazed upon this surface once in the past?
And oh how you broke my heart, dear traveler. I picture it now in the palm of your hand; bloody, ripped and spent; its roots still clinging to whatever hope is left of a normal and happy life.
But I understand, dear Romancer. I understand that I'm not worthy of the glorious shower of sparks you call your love. I've dipped my toes in the pool of your detachment and your cool sense of not caring who or what gets hurt in the process of you trying to figure out just what the hell makes you tick.
And though, as you once again lead me down your path of empty promises, shadows that sneak around and those skeleton friends you keep in every closet and every shed, I brace myself for the inevitable impact of that which is certain to be my downfall, my crisis and my death.
Yet, I'll remain behind the curtains at night and keep a look out on the stars as you told me to do, that night in September. And I'll fold every emotion, every yearning and every tear neatly together and stow them away in whatever empty space I, as a being, can find. I know not if I'll be able to enjoy or even look forward to the next fork in the road when I say left and you say right, but I can promise you one thing, dear little Goddess; I'll sure as hell am gonna try to agree with you.
