I became obsessed with the idea of marriage, not necessarily to you, not necessarily to anyone it seems.
I was enveloped in the romanticism, the declaration of love, a promise to love another forever. I tried to imagine you standing before me wearing a tux, or perhaps a nice shirt and slacks, pressed. I imagined that you would wear your old beat up vans and nix the idea of dress shoes; exactly what you knew I would want. I tried to imagine you saying those words to me, self-written vows, promising to love only me when we both know it's bull-shit and an impossibility. But I couldn't imagine myself saying self-obsessed words to you, couldn't imagine promising anything to anyone, not even myself.
I tell you I love you because you said it first. You told me you loved me the most informal way I see possible: via text message. I typed those frightful words back because I was afraid you would abandon the possibility of us if I didn't.
Most days I wonder why I would tell anyone I would love them; I am a misanthrope of the most pure kind. I love no one but the demons that haunt my every movement and moment and cause me the anguish of hades.
I find no inspiration in your smile, your words do not fecundate me as those of another, yet I lie in wait of you when nights are long.
Time is a harbinger of the dead spirit of life.
I'll abandon the idea of the union of myself to another knowing the poison I carry inside.
What is so great about the idea of the mundane, and why is it packaged and sold like gold?
We're fools of the most unwitting kind.