A Growing Fear of Subtext

I wish I could remember all the things you said last night in your feather pillow prophecies, after a few glasses of two buck chuck in my parent's kitchen. You said you were Cyclops, who wanted so badly to know his own death that he sacrificed an eye, and took Ulysses captive despite his foresight, and died. And that's why you're trying so hard not to fall in love with me.

There's a lot of gray between fear and love, my friend, so don't sing to me how actions speak louder than words. Stop catchphrasing other people's gala night shout outs and start finding your own, (and I would love you even more in woman's clothes.)

Is it such a bad thing to withdraw every now and then? To the cloister of the bosom of the ones you love the most? I keep the ones I love far away, so I don't have to extend the energy of loving them all the time, but only inbetween picking them up and dropping them off at the airport. I don't know why I don't just let you love me.