You’re that kind of
man. I talk to you and find you attractive, you get my hopes up only to find
out you are going out with someone else.
Then you want to meet me when I am seeing someone else. You wonder why I don’t
kiss you good night.
You think I’m cold and
guarded. I’m not.
Maybe this time.
Maybe in the
beginning.
And then, unwillingly,
unexpectedly, I fall in love. He promises the moon. He speaks of love.
He’s lying, of course.
He is that kind of
man. He plays at being a man. He plays at being willing to give me what I want.
He doesn’t even address a word to me for days. He thinks that’s ok. Proclaims
this hollowness, this void, this abyss to be love. Proclaims it to be what he
needs. I’m sure it is. It’s not what I need. I delude myself that he is being
truthful. I know he’s not. I guess I am that kind of woman.
I used to be. It’s
over.
That kind of man. I
take comfort in being heard. We talk for hours. It was supposed to be a short
phone call. We forget ourselves. You hear me out when I am alone and lonely and
unheard. I think that is ok. It’s not. I grow attached. You want more. But you
don’t want it all. You start playing. Déjà vu.
