I didn't know you, but you knew what you wanted
and were willing to play
the long game. We took
a circuitous route, I as if blindfolded,
You leading the way. I peeked,
and though it wasn't where I wanted to go,
I didn't care enough to stop you;
maybe, I thought, I might grow
to like the destination.
But as the years passed, it only grated on me,
that place near where you wanted to go
where we halted, the last leg
requiring my voluntary assent. I chafed
against my being there; I was disappointed
in myself for allowing myself
to be deluded, to ignore all the signs.
Love doesn't work like that. I knew
better.
You, long-suffering in your patience,
awaiting my change of heart,
endured our long friction-filled afternoons
just to hold me a little longer
and pretend we were having a good time.
We did what you thought I wanted to do,
things that I did want to do, but could do
with or without you,
you who wanted more than to be
the source of the nice that I felt being with you.
Of course you would cast me as the villain