Rituals

Withholding and who opens up the door
For whom, the chocolates (which I do not eat)
And flowers (I hate roses)
And the counting of the times you see someone
Before you are allowed to show
Essential pieces of yourself
So not to push that one away,
Or else to test them to make sure
That they deserve the next reveal,
All seems a bunch of crap to me.

Not calling when you want to call, or
You text instead of calling, waiting
The other out to try to win
The upper hand of order or in order to ensure
That you have done the proper dance
To protect yourself, so if the other
Bails or hurts or disappoints,
You can say, as you sit alone and once again alone,
"At least I took the proper steps," 
Seems awfully flat and cold to me.

This does not a true love make
In my own mind, at least, or maybe
Therein lies a fairy tale
I do not believe anyway, so maybe 
I have spun one for myself
As I believe the following:

The why of wherefore the strange words
"Test," "protect,"  and all the rest
Must be included in at all
The lexicon of love and friendship
Constantly evades me.

The reason why the process
Used on children or on pets we wish to train
To introduce them to the rules 
Of reward and consequence 
Is preached and used
When adults try and seek some solace
In another, equally adult,
Constantly confounds me.

And at this stage in the so-called game,
At a time when game-playing exhausts me,
And I, of an ilk that does not naturally
Play these games at all,
And if love is a game that must be won,
And played so calculatedly to sustain,
It's time, I think, to try
And consider a life alone.

Or, at least, to learn to love myself 
And my instinct to stay away from all the play
That doesn't feel like play at all.
No games,
No unclear and stagnant ritual,
No stupid dancing around the beauty of the truth.
For one who overthinks anything that can be thought,
I think it's time 
To do.