I am scratching at the self-destruct button. Things have been too good for too long. I am not used to this unrestrained fog of joy. How can I have all the things I need. And so, after a good time, I work to wreck it all by wanting you.
What was there was enough, this easy intimacy, the perfection of the weather, the conversation, the company. Too perfect, like a pond and it is in my nature to throw a stone into the centre of it or dive bomb, full bodied, breaking the glassy calm of the surface.
Instead I stop now here, when it is over and remains intact. I kick the thing, hoping to prove that it is not permanent, that I am not worthy of this. I say it is not enough. I say I need a reciprocation of impossible desire. I stomp on it hard-booted and wait for it to break and for you to leave but you don't.
You shrug. You will get better you tell me in that calm way you have. I am tempted to refrain from contacting you again. I will become a stranger. I will keep my distance, just to prove that I can be replaced easily. There will be other people who will become your intimate friends. There is someone waiting and she will be less problematic than I have been. I exhaust you. I know this. I exhaust myself.
I step away. Now, at the height of the thing. I turn my back on it and curl tight into a spiked ball.