Dress Me Like a Clown

    In bad times, I remember good times.  Through good times, I plan better times.  It's inevitable.  I'm hopelessly hopeful.  Neck-deep in cynicism, I'm still spinning sickly sweet conceptions that spiral beyond my mind's control.  Wallowing in bitter misery, I construct and reconstruct various fairy tale endings.  You grow up.  I calm my nerves.  We get it together. Whiny whispers creep back, draining my reserve, straining my (ears? heart? head?), making me desperate.  "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing. I mean... it's silly. It's stupid."  "Tell me."  "You won't laugh?" "Do I ever laugh at you?" 
     So much affection in nuances, in hushed laughter, in the closeness of our good nights.  Why do we always have to end up back together?  It's exhausting.  It's miserable.  It's exhilarating.  The way you can't hide your feelings.  The way I never let mine show with anyone else.  The easiness.  The simultaneous existence of comfort and nervousness.  Of familiarity and strangeness.  Oldness and newness.  Trust and suspicion.
     I'm so ambivalent, even though the decisions seem so obvious.  Especially to everybody else.  But they're not us.  And I'm sick of their input and their interfering and their inferences.  So my decision is this: I'm staying exactly where I am.  With you, without you, with you.  Wherever we end up, we'll see.  But I'm not any more prepared for the commitment or consequences than you are.  We stay in limbo because it's what we need from each other, and all either one of us can provide.  And some days it breaks my heart.  And some days I'm unsatisfied.  And some days I'm miserable.  But every day it's what I want.  You're what I want.  And maybe we'll grow into commitment and consequences, and maybe we'll grow apart.  I'm not placing any bets.  
     I'm just keeping us between us.  We're so much better that way.