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Perhaps I am Just Difficult To Love before/after The girl I walked with months ago works at the coffee shop. There was a poetry reading tonite. I read and played accompanyment on a beautiful red guild guitar. "I'm sorry that I was so...cold, earlier," said amanda. "Its okay." "I just didn't want you to think I was...a...a...bitch." "I don't." And so on. I tried to talk to her, but there's always been something. I know there is a connection, but now, looking back on it, I have the sense she fights it. She does have a boyfriend, I think. Such a cute little girl. Petite. Sexy. Boundless energy. I asked her questions, and it felt like twenty questions. No flow. But when I look into her eyes long enough, I see something there. I know something is there for me. My cock gets hard talking to her sometimes. I have no desire to break up anyone's relationship, least of all at the behest of my selfish greedy male member. He's so simple, yet I love him so. Sexual fantasies of her drift easily into and out of my mind. I can tell she likes it when I watch her, something again about the eyes. And she's so breezy and nice with everyone else. That tells me something, too. I read my poems earlier, bringing a mic stand and accompanying the other readers. One woman accompanyed me on piano. I stood and red my long poem written on the cliffs of pictured rocks memorial day weekend, the mournful piano tinkling behind me as I flipped page after page onto the table with style and a little flourish, eventually covering it. Later, as everyone started to leave, I played a song on demand for amanda, who hadn't heard me play. We talked for a bit, then she got really busy. I sat and played. Seranaded her softly from time to time while she worked, me sitting off to the side on the arm of a sofa, playing for her. Singing for her. I felt that it was a sweet thing to do for her. I hope she liked it. Then I left and met much of the group at the bar, where after initial awkwardness was left chatting with a neurotic new yorker, who pulled much more out of me than I'd like, and detailed her most recent depressive breakdown and near suicide. I don't like talking about myself, really. I can feel the judgements, and we are all so more than our disparate peices. I suppose that makes me difficult to love sometimes, when all I want is to be loved. I just don't want to disclose. I listened to her for hours. She borrowed three bucks for beer. We hugged and went our separate ways. And I am left with the feeling of being difficult to love, just by trying to love the world.
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