What I want, after all, isn't what I want from you.
I had pretended. Like a broken-winged bird.
Take it from someone with nothing better to do:
I only wanted a look-in, a signal, a tiny dirty word.
So: I'm sorry. I acted like a turd.
You've got your daunting secrets. And I knew.
It's what some people call: being absurd.
But what do they know about being blue?
When you remained silently and perfectly poised
on your beloved island, I tried my best to be rotten.
To lure you back with my bacon of a voice.
I don't blame you for trying not to listen.
In the end, my wanting became a prison.
Karma negated me and pointed to my only choice.
Believe me, it wasn't the world's easiest decision
but I made it. I bought the pain, my Rolls Royce.
In my elegant horsepowered sorrow I found
that all I really ever wanted from you was
divine worship, eternal bondage, bejewelled crown.
I wanted so much I forgot how far my head went up my arse.
So: now: in the aftermath of the farce,
I'm willing to go along, I force me to go down
to the simplest of interaction, only just because
that's the simple truth of it, god help me I'm a clown.
Because: what I want is not what I want.
What I want only you would know.
Only you would understand how it haunts
me so, only you could destroy my ego
and return it, as a gift, a soft silken pillow,
upon which you so gently taunt
me to believe in love once more. How can I let go?
When it's you: who I love. You: who I want.