Impossible

“You are untouchable,” you say to me.
Repeatedly.
You tell me I am cold: Unreachable. Unmovable. Impenetrable.

So when I turn up on your doorstep unannounced like I have tonight as silent as moonlight and you let me into your home, into your heart, into your bed and I pretend sleep while your hands creep under my shirt, your lips on mine hiding words unsaid, what do you call this?

I am, in your words, unresponsive…
and yet, rejected, bewildered, hurt
you want me
still

And in my selfish, depressed and desperate state,
it is an uneasy thrill
to know you don’t find me as repulsive
as I do
I am indulging myself in my own grief as much as I am
indulging you in your unlove-lust
but
as always
my belt is as far as I extend this untried trust.

“Why don’t you believe in love?”
and the word is like a trigger. The off-key to your affection.
I am cruel, almost, in my misery, in my pain,
in my desire to play these word games.
“I just don’t.”
You hate this.
And we both know it is not you I want to be debating with.
“Have you been hurt before?”
You face changes. Inside, you have just closed another door.
“It means nothing. It’s just a word. It’s empty.”
“So why does it annoy you so much?”
This rare and unrelenting silence on your part is new to me. I persist.
“So you’ll never say you love me?”
“What does that matter? You don’t love me...”
“How do you know that?”
“It is not me that you love. That much I’m certain of.”
“There’s no one else in my life right now…”
“She may not be in your life, but she remains constantly, if not completely, in your heart.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“It can only be a woman. I know you better than you think I do. Probably better than you know yourself at the moment. I can almost see her in your eyes. I can always hear her when you speak. I know that when you’re here, it’s always because of her.”
“Then why do you still want this?”
“Because. I like you. Simple as that. How much I care about you is not a reflection on how much you care about me. That’s not how it works.”
“… I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“For not loving you. I wish I could…”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me.”
“But it bothers me. I can’t do this anymore.”
~.~