Say Something New

Right. I hate the fact you laugh at me. I hate it. It's not that you laugh at me, more when you laugh at me. Because you laugh at me when you do, with the disdain that you do means that you don’t get it. Most people laugh at me because I make them, thus I can laugh at them. (For reasons of pure ego.) But you don't. You laugh with such disdain in your voice it makes me feel bad to play my game.
I still love you though. I wish things were different. I wish I were older and you were younger. Or you were older and I was older. Or we both were younger or older. Or we were the same age we are currently, only we weren’t related. Or we were related and living in Oregon or Arkansas. Or I was pretty and you were smart. Or we knew each other from the library. Or you had a flat tire and I had a jack. Or there was room in your refrigerator for the watermelon I bought on the black market from an oriental guy named Larry. In a way, I wish all of these wishes.
I would though, like to dance with you. Old timey dancing where we are an appropriate distance from each other and my hand is eagerly around your waist and my eyes never leave yours. I long to hold your hand and feed from your energy as we make our rounds across some barren dance floor while some guy named, "Pap" looks on with approval, and some woman who is very proper looks at us with disgust because she sees where this is leading. It's going where we all want it to go: me subsisting off the condensation on your lips for three days.