Between the Two.

I decided halfway through dinner, between the miso soup and tuna rolls,
That it wouldn't be you.
My friend's say I wear my heart on my sleeve, so I'm guessing you sensed me distancing myself. Maybe, I was too comfortable with you at that point. No more need for charades of impeccable elegance and girlish demeanor.
I was me, raw and unapologizing.
Is that why you clutched my arm close to yours as we walked on the pier, why you pressed your palms against my shoulders as we both looked at the yachts floating in place?
It was a good conversation, one of our best.
You told me more about your family, that part that no one sees and that I had been longing to know. You asked if I wanted to go with you on Sunday to buy a new couch and t.v for your studio.
After, you asked me if I wanted to come over, as usual, and I said I was busy.
I could tell you were upset but you said everything was fine.
Later you sent me a text retracting your words.

So, I came over. To talk.
You said you liked me, but was frustrated because here I was ignoring you for two weeks while you were limiting yourself. You pointed out charts and numbers that proved you were looking for more, that you were serious.

But how funny it is, your selective memory. And I recognized this, and you reminded me of him. The manipulation of words, the calm disregard for the repeating drunk calls I didn't answer, your own proof that no, this was more than innocent ignorance.

I searched your stucco ceiling for an answer, the sleek surfaces of your Ikea furniture, your expensive ties hung with delicate care. No, we were looking for different things I said. You said you didn't think we were but alright, o.k.

I said we could still be friends.
You said you have enough friends.

So, that is that. I chose him over you because he doesn't scare me the way you do. His smile and clear-cut affection are safer than your masked emotions, which cling to my bones in a deeper way. But I don't want scars. With him, I am pleasantly appeased, happy at constant degrees. With you, you settle yourself deep, make yourself at home in our chaotic embrace. I could say, I want you more, I feel more when I am with you. But, at the moment, that isn't what is best for me, not the logical, safe choice. And it cringes my insides to think like that, in a manner I disdained when I was younger. What happened to young, reckless love? I suppose it vanishes when one has been trampled and resurrected more than once. I am trying to decide if it is an improvement in logic, or a crumbling bravery.