I remember the night we met, that night we sat entwined under summer skies. I looked into your eyes and you looked into mine.

You said, "You're not like the rest" and I nodded.
"No one understands me," you said and I nodded once again,
as if to agree that all men are indeed the same.
Somehow, you said, I was different.

For months on end, I maintained a veneer of sincere interest as if I were listening as you relived every page of self-help and new age that you had read, and I went in for the kill.

I'd read the same books. I learned to ape the motions of a "sensitive" human being and we were "oh-so-happy", but you found things to fix and I knew it was time "to move on".

So now you have me completely figured out. You feel sorry for me. I can't express my feelings. I can't tell the truth. We are all alike.

At p___rty I was sworn to secrecy by the international brotherhood of lying fickle males. I can't tell you anything and I can't commit! You're right! I can't commit... to you.

I will always treasure our time together. I don't feel enough of anything to harbor the kind of disdain that you'll maintain. You painted me into what you wanted to see, and that's fine -- but you will never know me.

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