Fruitless

I hate it.
I don't want to be out here,
This wasn't my choice.
I don't want to try my luck, playing the field . . .
I wanted to leave that behind long ago.
When I found her, I wanted so badly
to never have to go back
          to this.
I wanted that to be it.
The end.
No more searching,
No more longing,
No more striving,
No more agonizing over every little detail,
Hoping and wishing that someone would just turn their head,
and give me a chance.

I hated The Game.
I remember her speaking of how much fun it was,
in the times before things were solid,
          still malleable like clay,
          and we had the thrill of shaping it
          and watching it change and shape into something
                    wondrous.
in the times before we were together.
Parts of it may have been fun,
but those parts never compensated for the aggravation,
and all of the difficulty, (so implicit).
The Game is fun when you have a target,
                    an objective
that is also playing The Game.
But when your target is not as enthusiastic as you,
          (or not even playing The Game at all),
then it's agonizing. Fruitless work.

Yet now, I'm here.
I'm back.
Back in this stupid game.
I don't want to play,
I don't even want to be a bystander.
The sickening sense of returning to square 1 is too much.