Let me get this straight.
I drive you to drink, to madness, to self-analyses of the worst kind. You beat yourself up. You beg for release, beg to be reeled in, beg to be slapped in the face.
My complications pull me back, you push yourself harder, into me. You do not wish away my giving, generous self. But your strength is in your desire, your weakness in your self-control.
This gives you your first drunken chug-fest in years.
By day you ply yourself with Captain-n-cokes, call your old lover-now-friend. You write tender, telling emails, at a pace of 130 wpm and hit send over and over flinging them my direction.
Your neighbor sees you throw the empties off the pier as the sun sets on the lake, clear bottles, relieved of cheap pink wine.
This “thing,” this obsession; you admit how it makes you question your worth, your intention, your motivations.
And she is supposed to believe this is how one loves?