Isn’t it Lonesome?

They say, "Don't start your sentences with and," and I plead to them "But how am I to write the way I speak?" to which they shout, "Don't start your sentences with but!" then shrug and carry on as though I have no other input to offer.

And we move on.

Here's the deal though: you consider their words then shake them off like the neighbor's dog, you look me in the eye, tell me "I don't care how different we are, I want you" and we sit down and talk things out until we fall asleep in each others arms on that faux-suede sofa.

Ah. If only life were so simple.

Instead, all that happens are scapegoats in the yard, Hail Marys scrawled across the bathroom mirror, missing Xanax, and a beautiful rosary tucked away in your nightstand. You cry in my arms and remind me I'm the only one who hasn't abandoned you, before I'm so ashamed I run off and leave nothing but the presence of the ukulele I sang love songs about you on when we were akin to that of classic Greek or romantic Italian youths.

And so it goes, again.

Here I sit, here I stand, here I weep; a fool full of grief. With the wings of Icarus I've touched the sun over thousands of miles away and fallen deep into the depths of an ocean where I realize my faults, mistakes, and burdens. Like all the cigarettes I've burned into my lungs, or all the melatonin I've over-indulged in, the chest pains and lost days don't compare to the overwhelming guilt of self-willingly blinding myself to your tears and your needs.

But if the world were perfect, don't you know?

I'd work long hours at the pizza place, go home and take a shower, wake up and have coffee with my parents, before the long college hours consume me, and I sit beneath the sun with doctor scribbled notebooks and lazy ink doodles caricaturing the lecture professor with the hideous plaid pants. Before the clock strikes 4, the car windows are down and the white noise of speed and wind become the noise of freedom, before I pick you up from work and we listen to your favorite songs while we make fun of our co-workers as though it were some rom-com scene. We don't go home, we go to the park and sit on the hill we grew up on, albeit, at different times of our lives. Watching the freeway with all the cars and the cotton candy skies, the end of a 4 year-old's birthday party where he tells his parents he loves them while they put everything in the car; you grip my hand, gently, firmly, and almost anxiously.

As if your family could ever accept you, us, let alone...me.

But only in this current time where I'm the cowardly Prince and you are the Rose.

In this perfect world, your grip places my hand on your stomach and we talk about what to name our future child, if they will sing with your Apollonian voice or paint with my Pollock ferocity. I've accepted all of you, your faults, your quirks, your family, without fear nor anger; only forgiveness and kindness, like the man upstairs your family believes in, taught. I've shed the anger and resentment towards my parents, anger and resentment towards myself, and when I tell you I'll never hurt you intentionally as I slip the ring on your finger, you've forgiven me, and from there on like a newborn bud, believe and trust me. No one points out I have the wrong parts, and you aren't afraid to kiss my cheek when I sheepishly get the wrong brand of eggnog for you while we're out grocery shopping. No one tells you I'm a phase, you don't panic over your sexuality, and we realize like Agent Scully and Agent Mulder or Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer that there is no other partner that could replace the other.

But in this real world, this is the current reality.

I'm at my most vulnerable over thousands of miles away from where you are, too afraid to tell you I was more wrong than Paris kidnapping fair Helen, or more wrong than Zeus cheating on Hera and never learning his lesson. I've sat in the hospital and remembered the smell of ERs and ICUs, mangled legs under pale blue sheets, heart monitors innocuous blips becoming shortened blares; moments I realized life is short, I'm a goddamn idiot, and I wish you didn't leave me.

You are no replacement goldfish, nor are you some long-lost first love. You said you wanted time for yourself, and I smothered you, so you wanted space from me.

So I supposed I've answered myself blindly.