detached.

A piece I wrote a few months back.

And so I sat, wondering to myself just how confused I really was.

What did I actually know in the end?

 

Was I saving face or silently crumbling into some hideous perversion of what’s what in the world of functioning lives.

 

Only a week ago had she been in my arms, with hers sprawled out across me, hands intertwining and caressing endlessly in some sort of profound peace of melodic grace…

 

or some kind of misunderstood fulfillment to need and be needed,

if even only for one night to rekindle some unromantic candle of hope.

 

I promised myself that I wouldn’t get attached to anyone so quick as I had before,

never again did I want to be the guy who latches on and needs.

 

The rules of the game might as well have been handed to me by some ghostly king of Babel, as they constantly seem to be just an arm’s reach away from an understanding.

 

I was rewarded time and time again for being content without love,

but in its divine comedy the reward was always another love.

 

Naturally, being somewhat intelligent,

I seemed to figure that the first rule was that when you need it, you’ve lost it…

 

And so the trick to success must be then to never need it.

So I made the exit the same as I had made the entrance:

detached.

 

Honestly, it was words such as ‘enjoy the single life’ that had been the appeal,

setting up a night full of safe no-strings-attached fun that both of us could walk away from…

Any interest shown thereafter would have been the simple delights of flirting for the sake of flirting

...right?

 

leaving me to hope that I’m not letting something walk away by the hands of my own naivety.