You
must accept that’s who he really is.
You
must accept you cannot be his
unless
he is yours. No compromise.
He
is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a
clay that never sets, steel that bends
in
a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no
one can whistle. He is not who
you
thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that
walks away: “I will not go where you
want
to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m
not. I have the sole of a lover
but
don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it,
then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.”
“Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You
have to hear what he is telling you
and
see what he is; how it is killing you.