Masterfade

     It seems so different this time.  Do I say that every time?  I might.  I can't remember, but I might.  But this time it's worlds away from where we've ever been before.  It's just us.  At last.  But is it?  I love believing everything you say.
     It's such a relief for you to meet my expectations in a positive way.  Your attentiveness is validating.  A belated validation, but a validation nonetheless.  And I think that is as much as I want from you.
     I live inside daydreams.  I weave lengthy, seamless performances from the terse syllables and laughter that constitute the bulk of our dialogue.  I construct you out of your disillusionment, conceptualize you as an abstraction of my impressions and avidity, using you as a distant secondary source.  I affirm myself in a way you never have in these capricious reveries that supersede you.  I am satisfied with them.  They are enough for me.
     Your indignation at the distance is sweetly comforting.  I feel so much closer to you when I'm pulling away from you.  When I attach, you let go.  When you cling, I run.  We can't get the pieces together.   We likely never will.
     It's perhaps disheartening that I remove myself from us in our bliss.  But I'm not leaving you, lover.  I'm just putting my heart away again.  I think we fare better when I'm not addled by adulation. 
     I chose the name Mr. Fantasy for a reason, darling.