Marriage: the attachment of one person to another- theoretically for life. It is strangely attractive to me, in the way "blood sisters" and "cross your heart" was to me as a child. It's a challenge, it's a sacred oath. Sounds slightly secretive and tons of fun, to never have to be or feel alone again.

Back in the yonder years marriage was a business transaction- women/ daughters sold for some kind of profit or benefit. The engagement ring for example, evolved from a rope used to tie a fresh bride to her bed, or a convenient chair, so she would not run away while the man was working or doing his manly type stuff. Eventually, once the bride realizes there is no escape, and where would she go anyway?, the rope is reduced from shackles to a loop around the finger. A reminder- I could tie you up again faster than a hummingbird. Eventually, we placed a little more value on the woman and this string was replaced with gold, and now diamond bands. Adorable isn't it?

There is a BDSM side of me that says- cool, tie me up. Make me yours. Claim me dammit- aren't I worthy? But there is another side of me that say- run free. Live for yourself.

I am conflicted, and confused. Do I want to be married, tied down to one person for the rest of my life? Will that make me happier? Knowing he can't get up and leave (easily anyway) and that we truly belong to one another? Legally, in writing?

I have not yet decided- the can of worms is too intimidating. Luckily for me there is no ring on my finger, no claim made. I do not have to make a decision that will hurt me either way. I am scared, and feel very alone- fighting with yourself is always more tiring. I do not want to make a mistake. I do not want to flee in my Pumas, nor do I want to kneel before an alter.

I am afraid the moment of decision is looming. We sure as hell aren't getting any younger.

My Samson

I need you to reassure me that everything is okay.
I want you singing to me,
or drive me around aimlessly in your SUV we named after a story book horse.
We talked to her when we had car trouble,
like the soothing tone of our voices could do better than a mechanic.

But you are not here
you haven't been for 8 years.

I couldn't kill,
and you couldn't fight,
the wrath of suburbia.

I remember when we would lie in your bed,
listening to Tori Amos,
and we would share our
diagnoses.
I would read you my poetry
you played the piano.

I'm bi-polar,
you were manic.

Little mirrors of one another,
each the base to the others acid.

Our love worked so well.

But eventually the straws of
-suburbia, stress, apathy, feigned nonchalance, among other things-
broke you
and you left:
New York
bright lights
New people.
You gave me Under the Pink,
and rode off on Black Beauty.

I just want you to know,
I understand.
We don't talk anymore.
Silence is heavy with patience.

Last I heard from you
you had bells in your voice,
You write music, and you sound better than ever-
I am happy for you.

I wanted you to know that no matter how little we talk
I still love you.
You were the first person to listen.
You were the first man who loved me
without tainting that love with awkward sexual advances.

I understand that it is too painful to talk to me,
because I belong in that place you fled from.
That's okay,
but when you left,
I sniped a lock of you hair for a souvenir,
and I slipped a piece of my heart into your bag.

We both know I am too vain to be forgotten..