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The Lover

The very first thing you need to know about the lover is that he prefers not to be referred to as the lover, for he has made it abundantly clear that he will never love me. So you may refer to him as friend or comrade. The next thing you need to know is that I think I deserve to call him the lover, mostly because I think I know him better than anyone around, because our lips have shared the same cups, and because for a time we existed so close together in the same realm that I was sure every stranger on the street could sense what we were up to all those nights at 3 a.m. but also all those afternoons in broad daylight. I believe the next logical step is for me to describe him to you so you know what I am in for and why I have done what I have done.  

The lover is full of puppyism, a youthful yellow glow. He is only nihilistic when he is sober, which is almost never these days. The lover is Hercules at the beginning of the movie, strong to the point of ignorance. The lover tosses my body like it's a doll and not a vessel in which I use to feel, and see, and move. The lover does not know his strength. And though it has been weeks since our last roundabout, I still carry bruises from his careless mouth and fingers.  

The lover is not scared of confrontation. The lover thinks I have a loud mouth when he overhears me talk of him. The lover says don’t tell. I heard someone say that the lover was possessive over his lovers but he does not consider me a lover, just a sounding board. The lover makes me feel like I am a means to an end, like I am only good when I am giving. Maybe I’m just projecting. The lover is not a bad guy, really. The lover plays music through his TV. The lover is funny. The lover is giving. The lover has no boundaries. The lover does not trust himself. When he says no more, four times out of five he does not mean it and four times out of five I know he will be back for me. The lover is selfish. The lover is generous. The lover never lets me finish but his name sounds sweeter in my mouth than any endearment ever could. The lover laughs when he nears closer but crawls back into himself when he is done. 

  The lover says we are over for real this time, and I read somewhere that everything is either love or the absence of love, and I think so this must be love because what is more love than the lover setting me free from the anxiety of the unrequited.  


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