I don’t know, Paula, but to tell you the truth, the answer is one I’ve already told.
Sometimes I think I fall too hard. Other times I think I don’t fall hard enough. Most of the time I think I fall too often and far too fast. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I long to be embraced and accepted and yet I do everything I can to ensure it never happens. It’s called torment and it tells my tales. It’s many times broken and few times mended. It’s easily cracked, easily crazed, easily excited but seemingly impossible to penetrate for anything longer than a love lingering more than a few months. And when it finally flees, it flicks and flames and it leaves a bright red gash.
In the past year and a half, I’ve written of four free falls. It might as well be four score. Whatever it is, it’s more than one and it’s too many. In fact, the one that I have found is already too many and yet not enough. I’d rather love deeply than often and fleetingly, but I don’t know how. I know little about compromise or how not to complain. I know little of keeping or listening to women because I don’t speak woman or understand their wiley womeny ways. They speak a language and with a tongue I don’t understand, one I wish I could hear and one I wish I could suck.
Instead, I don’t do commitments other than commitments to cruise and commitments to crush. I’m quick to judgment and quick to cut off. I’m quick to find any mistake or reason to walk. Walking is easy. Staying is hard. It means risk and maybe reward. It means more to me than I wish it did, because by all things bright, by all the stars above or the one deep within you, I tear tears from wrecked and reddened, nearly unredeemable, swollen, aging brown eyes…
hoping with hopelessness that someday, some way I will love a woman for the rest of my days and the remainder of my lifetime; that this will be my last love and it will linger much longer than my week long lust.
So, to answer your question, Paula, to put you at ease, I have no answer other than the one I’ve already given…I don’t know.