I've always known I would never be your final destination.
It was foolish to ever think otherwise.
But fool myself I did,
Hoping against hope that I'd beaten the odds,
And that this time--no, this time--no, this time
We could stay put long enough
To become adults for real.
But fool myself I did,
And so the Fool I'm destined to remain,
Every year another cliff to frolic on
And perpetuate the definition of insanity.
Would it be different, if we were lovers?
If everyone piling assumptions upon assumptions on top of us was right?
If the maddening intangible thing that turns my stomach
At the most natural acts in the world
Were within my grasp after all?
Then, would I have license to cry,
To explode in betrayal at the acknowledgement of the forever implicit,
To be in the right in my mourning of the dream of a future
Spent prioritized and un-alone?
...perhaps not.
Perhaps I would just shrug meekly as I always do,
Allaying your concerns with false serenity
And assuring you I'll figure it out somehow--
(--because that's gone so well for me before.)
I never could let myself buy furniture.
The floor isn't so bad for a week, a month, a year--
--and besides, it all winds up on the curb in the end.