One time I used to wish this city would swallow us whole in romance and fantasy. That was one time.
Now I know for certain that you are like this city. A tempting little mirage I blindly kept following in hopes my inner truth would turn to face fantasy as well. You see, I don’t really want you. I don’t know what I want. You’re just The Dream. You’re the subject of dreams, a playful partner in a back-and-forth beguiling game; although I posit we’re both misleading each other in different ways.
O! Can’t you be but a nightingale? Singing a song of great allure in between puffs of smoke and seemingly subtle mentions of The Pixies? Can’t you mockingly kick a fence like a punk and cavort about sidewalks to the next target of your masquerading madness, goaded along by my giggling?
No. You don’t care about allure. There exists no part of you which hopes to be alluring while the desire to be–the desire to be desirable!–practically inundates me. As if my ingenuous tickles at potential sparks and imagined magic is a sort of insult to your conceptions of courtship; an arena in which I’d die to play and you merely deign.
I hate that you don’t like me. I hate that I don’t need you. I caressed my Little Saturnine Girl way too many times, wishing my melancholy would make you come around. I even tried to be overly lascivious, which most everyone could agree is never an attempt, but a natural reflex I have when presented with stagnant conversation.
Does everyone else have a James Dean? Have they succeeded in the aforementioned fantasies, breathing in someone else’s smoke after those fences behind the bar took a beating? While I cannot scientifically prove that most all other girls have been The Girl, I can regularly presume it. Only because the punks for whom I pine have yet to exhale into my bated breath. I have never been their Girl, but they have been, to my despondent knowing, The Boy.
So cast off and onward, make your way into the night sky. You’ll find fantasy elsewhere, and I will forfeit to belief. I understand your pedantic rhetoric about foreign films and I swear I can comprehend the tangled, mellifluous metaphors written by your favorite authors–but no matter. Surrender need not be a painful defeat, rather a kind welcome into letting go. If it’s not there, it’s not there.
So thanks for inadvertently letting me know.