I’m just not made for relationships. I’m made for those undefined and strange things that happen when neither of us is paying attention. It’s what happens in those hours when we’re not worried about titles, only how many tacos we can stuff into our stomachs and who’s going to fall asleep first on the film we both chose, that make sense to me. I’m made for that strange thing we’re doing when everyone else is wondering why I’m in so many of your photos and what’s made me pick up the pen again.
I don’t know how to need. As a minimalist, I look at life’s needs a bit differently than most. Hence why I’m always broke, all my clothes fit into a small bag, and I’m always happy. As the descendent of folks who did most things on their own and allowed me to sit in the room while it all happened, I am well skilled in self-reliance. I will probably never need you. I will want you. It will always be my choice to be with you, and to me, that’s so much better. Don’t need me.
I will never chase after you. The soles on my shoes are almost completely worn, my knees are cracking, and my feet hurt sometimes because I walk too much. Relationships in the past have failed because I didn’t show up on the other side of the closed door, where they waited for me to stop them. Don’t tell me to leave when you mean “stay.” If I say leave, I mean leave. I only know how to get up when I’m done, but not before. I learned that at my best friend’s dinner table when I was 8. When you’re done, I expect you to get up as well. Don’t keep me company for the hell of it.
I’m a believer in opportunities, but not so sure “opportunities” is the word I want to use here. If you’re sitting in a coffee shop and a man enters and strikes up a random conversation about field mice and you laugh while the ice melts in your chai latte, and 45 minutes later you find yourself wondering if he’s your “person,” I will encourage you to find out. I will be hurt, but I will tell you to be sure. I have this foolish notion that we should always be sure we’re supposed to do this and with each other.
If you’re happier with titles, I will take a title. You can call me “boyfriend,” “lover,” or “him.” I can be him. I could also live out our relationship having never called you anything and having never been called something in return and I’d be just as happy. Any title you want, I will give you. It will mean more to you than it does to me, and that’s fine. We don’t belong to each other, we’re merely two people keeping each other company for a very long time.
I’m selfish and while I don’t require you to be, I will not allow you to make me feel bad about it. I will never sacrifice my inner freedoms for you and I won’t let you play a martyr. Whether I enter your space or you enter mine, you are here to share me with me, and I look forward to sharing all of you with you without compromise. Humanly, naturally, we will evolve if we are meant to, but we can’t sit idle, waiting for that evolution.
I’ve been told it’s unrealistic to always want to feel springtime. I see couples eating dinner in public, each wishing they were alone or with whoever’s making them smile through the phone they can’t seem to ignore. It makes me think of the old women in dry marriages who make toasts at weddings, saying things like, “there will come a time when it’s not easy and may hate each other, but you will get through it together,” knowing it’s not always true. Some of them will grow in those dark places, but they will never bloom again. Undoubtedly, we will always grow, but I want to always bloom. I want us to always be new.
Relationships require realism and what I think is real seemed impossible to them. All of them. I live in a world where I think we could be happy always and grow like Bloody Geraniums, with a little shade, very little water, and plenty of sunshine.