"I'm serious about giving this is a shot," you say.
You've been saying that a lot lately. I don't understand numbers, but I know you said it more than five times today. You've been telling me that since day one of this. This? Yes, this. This that is undefined and unclear at the moment. It is what it is and I am sure there are words to describe this. We just can't decide what words to use to define whatever we think we have. Funny how we love words but can't use them to determine what we are.
"I'm up for anything," you say.
Anything? What is anything and how do you define that? What are you not up for and what determines what you are willing to do? You being up for anything scares the hell out of me. I might be leading you to hell and you'd still thank me. No. I'm not up for anything. I'm up for two specific things only. Either this ends now or we prolong this by labeling it.
"I don't know what I want," you admit.
I know what I want. I want this to begin before we decide that it should end. I want us to stop being such a pussy about it. I want to look you in the eye and say, "Well, we're so fucked up now aren't we? We can do so much better than this." I want an explanation. I want to know what's going on in your head. I can't read your thoughts. I want this to end. Or I want this to begin. We can't have both. It's all or nothing.
"But I am serious," you assure me.
And yet here you are with those eyes that may have the ability to see into my soul. You assure me and reassure me over and over again that you are serious. I am beginning to think that you repeat that phrase to remind yourself that you asked for this too. I didn't. I never did. But god, am I enjoying the torture you're putting me through.
"How serious are you?" you ask.