you're right

You’re right, we’ve never had a deep, philosophical conversation.

So what? What sort of deep, philosophical conversations do you need?

My ex just wanted me to shut up, stop asking so many damn questions, stop being curious. Just be a quiet nine-to-fiver, pay the bills, don’t take too long to come. And please, for the love of the god I’ll never believe in, be efficient in this life, dear girl. Don’t entertain those ambitions or dreams of yours.  Oh no.

Just make it safe. Do it all on time. And please, for me, baby, keep it dull.

But not me. I’d rather sharpen that knife. Over and over.

This blade is ready for slicing. Not for inflicting any pain, just for accuracy while I cut through all the bullshit.

And what good are these conversations anyway? What do you want to know about me that you can’t perceive right here, right now?

Yes, sometimes, I think it’s really that basic.  After all these years of trying to love people, of them trying to love me, after all is said and done, we only see what we want to see. You see what you want to see. And I can tell you for a fact that one, or even two or ten or twenty, so-called deep, philosophical conversation is not going to illuminate my entire soul. Or yours, either.

Why me? You could have any guy. Why me?

That’s an annoying question.

Why not you?

Kissing you reminds me of high school.  Me and a boy on a couch in my parents’ dark living room, the old Sony Trinitron flickering images on the wall behind us. It’s late and I know, any minute now, my stepdad is going to come down the stairs---stealth quiet as if he’s hoping he’ll catch us--- and tell the boy it’s time to go.

It’s like waiting for the creak in the step on the stair. That one sound will break the spell.

But until then, it’s nothing but the silvery hue of the television on our faces, and the smell of Downy fabric softener, and the itchy feel of his wool sweater.

With you it’s just your tan arms and muscles, your urgent hands that pull me close, and own me, take me over. I've always wanted someone to pull my hair and shove me up against the wall and hold me there with his lips and chest alone. No one does that.

Hold my arms down. Tell me how it’s going to be. Push me into the wall.

You do that. Almost.

I know you could do that completely if I knew you better. Oh, that’s right, if only we had deep, philosophical conversations. 

You take over in your way. I get lost in it. It’s good.

The thing is, I want to get lost in all the things you make me want. What more is there to say?