Maybe I'm an escape artist

Maybe I’m an escape artist.

(I have no idea where that came from,
but there it is just the same, so let’s go.)

Maybe I want to admit something to you,
but of course I refuse to be caught.
It’s a bit like a Gordian knot, isn’t it?

Well, isn’t everything? It’s the unraveling
that sustains our interest, isn’t it?
I mean, once you figure it out
then the challenge becomes something like

a continuance of such intrigue, right?
And after all, isn’t it all about the chase?
I mean, once you’ve caught the bastard
isn’t it all over but the shouting?
As if logic has anything to do with it.

It made no sense that we fell in love.
You know it had little to do with emotion.
We both coughed that up when we realized
life was more like a struggle to survive.

But then again, does love even make sense?
What do I know about love except that you cared
enough to take the time to make me yours.

And so, what if the reason was self-serving?
Does it not serve me just as well? I love you.

Hello, senor Houdini, here I go again.