As It Stands It Falls

We cannot talk about what we cannot talk about and I cannot say what it is without it's becoming a lecture to you.

I might work an entire day on something, and fix or labor at a 1000 things, and your concern is with this other thing over here that remains undone; God, you must be a miserable person on the inside.

I notice that none of these things that you point out are ever eventually done by you. It seems that your job is to point them out and be disappointed in me that I have not done them. I have poured over each of my works and used up my youth and talent to make sure that each of your abstract rules and boundaries are attended to, but if there is a lapse in anything that is within a 1000 degrees of separation, you note it and give that despondent grin, and tell me that that was the most important part.

I am never quite where I need to be, quite attendant enough, and things connected with me by way of my having done them are ever so slightly always out of key, never the right shade, or just the perfect completion to a task or event.

I am ever behind, out of synch, just out of reach, have not picked up the right product, or did not do the one little more thing that might have made the entire project worth doing.

"Did you do X?"  you ask me, knowing full well that it is not done since we both see it right there.

At the last minute, just before you slip out of the door, you make sure to add to my list of chores an item to manage that will require my moving my entire schedule and replanning something I might have planned weeks in advance to do, but which is no longer possible if I am to make you happy.

If I have promised the least thing and then something comes up, you are hurt and abandoned and slighted and feel that I have put everything in front of my care for you.

If only I had called or noted or Facebooked or Kikked, or in some way sent a signal that things were not as planned, just in case, if I really cared, that would have made all the difference, even though you may change plans on a whim or because some person wholly disconnected from me is in some way made to feel more at ease or comfortable in some very tiny, slender, microscopic way.

I feel your wrath way more than your praise, and the list of things I cannot do will continue to lengthen as I age.  Soon, and even now, you will remember how I used to do things, and now they go undone, and I need to engage a man to do what I cannot or will not do.

Your lists and memory oblige you to confer on me the title of someone who is loved but ever so disappointing.