Puppeteer

36 red roses sit in front of me, bought by me, for A’s place. I am staying with him in New York and although, we met six months ago, I still await passion, vulnerability and nuances of emotions being splayed.

I am, however, still drawn. Still happy being in his presence. Drawn to his bed, to his body, despite how foreign. As if we are buddies, intrigued by each other but not crazed. Oddly, I don’t fear losing feelings. Perhaps those feelings are not ones of lust, not heightened, but they are safe. I really like him. I will not find myself in a month’s time playing puppeteer, holding the strings to his heart.

This provides comfort and elation for I am THE puppeteer. My hands fumble strings knotted as hearts decide that I am simply too busy. It pains me and I wonder if this is the source of the oddity between A and I. It’s as if I am too much a man. Too in control. Not soft. Emotional or vulnerable.

And then there is my mind’s match. I met him a week ago and as he told a common friend, I want to cuddle with her brain. I too want to cuddle with his. Talk to him every moment, but my friends assure me, it’s just a crush. I suppose we aren’t your standard deviation, perfect match . . .

So now not only am I once again living parallel lives, the New York girl and the one in Puerto Rico, I am living subparallels. The girl I am with My Mind’s Match is a girl that sleeps with A, dormant traits. I am a combination of too many people in one body and a puppeteer no less.

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