You tell me I should "be all Vishnu" and already have too many hands to need yours. That I should be there waving blue green arms around, not needing any help at all because I have so many multi-tasking tentacles.

So many smiles and caresses and kind words just when you need it, all happy to sew and wipe asses when you don’t. Then not only willing and capable of reaching into your most lusty passionate places to expertly coax pleasure from your body, but willing to feed your cells with delicious homemade foods, dress you up in a handmade top hat (of course I would trap the beaver myself), spark your visions. Whisper muses in your ear, never notice anything remotely irritating, never need sleep so bad I can’t get my shit together.

Doing all of this so seamlessly that you forget to notice me doing it at all. Getting to depend on that. I get to martyr myself. Then you get to point that out, along with the fact that I create my own reality. So all of this is my work and not yours, while you sit there all smug like some kind of Hero of All Time, the super fixer, bring you any feelings and you will deflect them with your manlogic deflector shields. Then the problems attach themselves to answers, forming complete maps and dioramas, pie graphs, budgets.

Then I tell you how smart you are and you tell me again why you’re the best. Then we do some laundry, check the oil, get the house trash together and do the dishes. Each of us thinking very separate thoughts and me wondering if I will ever dance again, If you will ever like kissing me, if I am not just doing all the wrong things for some illusion of safety and permanence.

Unless this IS dancing.

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