A Game Called Love

I don't like this game called love. There is leading, following, clash of differences, union of similarities, all played with the advantage to oneself, to gain a feeling, some kind of achievement. A chance encounter is a whirling beginning, plunging into pros and cons, curiosity and wanting that unknown to become solid, palpable. The prize of the chase is to gain that solidity, untrue solidity. Loose mouths and words attest to fictitious promise unworthy of prolonged dedication.
Dive in and test the waters, because they will carry you away with the current, intentions that are not your own, those of a man, a boy. A femme may try to direct the flow, so subtly, never to cause alarm and never to be traced. Drastic actions against strong courses cause rejection, tossed from its enveloping embrace. I don't like this helplessness.
Listen to his words, take his hand, they fill. I promise, they will. The taste is sweet and on the feigned grounds crafted by mutual affection is not as lasting as pavement. His is a game of gain, you are his as a temporary attachment, because his hand in yours is or will be a roadblock. The future is to be thought about and strings to pull him back are too heavy to manage.
It is not the game which is love. I long for the independent will of a man to choose. Decisive are his words and sure his vision. Love is a declaration, not an utterance, so thrust towards me the feelings of your heart. I am a choice, not a subject of indecision.