a mediocre lover i am, am i. for should i compare my trite needs to those of all the prospective lovers, the similitude seemingly reflects that i too am becoming quite common.
boredom begets loneliness, loneliness abets lust, lust disguised as love forges trust simply out of words and a mutual yearning to allay the loneliness, disperse the ennui, and momentarily, taper the primal urges that stir us all.
the blur between the lines is where we compromise, where the sexes ephemerally, experimentally, concede to meet in the middle and give and take until someone’s selfishness settles in, until we begin to feel all too sensitively that we are not satisfied any longer, and we start to stray awry, led away by the idyllic charms of strangers whom we begin to sigh after.
ah! but then we face the dangers of this guessing game all over again—the deceptions, the misleading, conniving, contriving, belying sense and senseless intuition that less is more, as long as we accept that ambiguity and novelty are becoming of a new paramour.
and so, i’m beginning to wonder, more and more, if vague and temporary accords are not truly the best deals in town, friends with benefits, to mutually agree that bliss is found in casual or no expectations and voluptuous provocations of the soul and mind. so that ultimately, we might only see one another for a month or two and then disappear, and thus need not the fear falling out, as well as reap the benefit of a memory of glistening moments which linger eternally upon the feral plains of elysian fields.
for why should we look toward forever, if a posteriori relationship 101, we know that the fun comes with no lifetime guarantee, that happiness is the sublime sample of relativity, and that the purest satisfaction has always been had alone. really, why should we?
the art of love
l.m