ABOUT THE POEM: The "Ronie Dinosaur" series, particularly Chapter 97, explores the Extinction of Depth. In a modern dating landscape that often feels like a "station of lust"-fast, transactional, and fragmented-Ronie is the "Dinosaur." He is a relic of an era (perhaps one that only exists in his own mind) where intimacy is a three-legged stool: Emotional, Psychological, and Physical. The core conflict of "Misfired" is the tragedy of the "Artist" vs. the "Man." The "Man" feels the fire, the "hourglass shape," and the "sunlight" on the skin. But the "Artist" understands that to consume the body without the heart is an act of "injustice." By refusing to "take advantage," Ronie isn't being weak; he is being consensual in a way the world rarely asks men to be. He is demanding that his heart be involved, or he refuses to play. The "Misfire" occurs because the woman processes desire as a validation tool. To her, his restraint is "uselessness." She views his respect as "empty," because she has been conditioned to believe that "manly, willing options" are those who take what they want without asking. This creates a psychological scar: Ronie begins to doubt if he is "like others." The later scene with the "different woman" is the most telling. It reveals that Ronie is searching for a Response-not just a physical one, but a mirror. He asks "if I am felt" because his previous rejection "branded" him as invisible. When he stops midway during sex, he is testing the universe: Are you here with me, or am I just a body to you? The "no response" from the woman is the ultimate horror for the Artist. It confirms his fear that people can be physically together while being light-years apart. Ronie's journey is the struggle of a man trying to maintain Equality in Fragments. He refuses to be a "willing option" for someone who only wants a piece of him. He wants the "all," or he wants nothing. This is why it is "Misfired"-the timing was off, the intentions were skewed, but the integrity remained intact.Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 97 — Reflection: Misfired
I was afraid-
how do I cup her face in my hands
and whisper, Stay quiet.
Let me admire what I have.
She pressed closer.
“Ronie, tell me something more.”
Maybe this time she’d steal a zeptosecond of lust
from the carefully curated meaning I offered.
I had to stop her-
stop her from licking my face,
hide the truth that she was already fire,
an hourglass shaped from crown to curve.
But at least-
either strip away the mask of friendship,
or let me present the artist in me,
who speaks far better
than Ronie’s stumbling words ever could.
I didn’t want to ruin what was precious,
what had no name tag yet.
She kept telling me-
through actions, through affection-
“You are friend enough.
Why don’t you get it, stupid?”
I began to impress her less.
The moment we couldn’t see each other,
I realized I’d been branded useless
in the back of her mind.
She started looking for manly, willing options.
I didn’t want to take that advantage-
not in any fucking world.
That was exactly what she wanted.
I don’t know where she learned
to process desire like that.
At least I knew myself:
here is my heart,
and here is my body.
If she had braked her lust-train,
maybe I could have landed my helicopter
on her helipad.
She could not digest one fact:
without my consent, she could not claim me-
not even when desire stood ready;
neither could I,
while she gleamed, radiant and whole,
in sunlight.
I didn’t want to cheapen her.
What they call sex
would happen on its own, without force.
We had four years of college ahead.
It was dangerous:
she was so sexy,
yet I wanted all of her.
There was no equality in fragments-
no justice.
She didn’t want my empty respect;
what I held was love.
Later in life, one night,
I was with someone else.
It was soft, almost pleasing-
until I stopped midway.
There was no response.
Her hands hung from the edge of the bed,
her head tilted down-
that was when I knew
something was wrong.
I said, “I love you.”
Before I could finish,
she replied, “I love you too.”
I stopped.
I carried her to the side of the bed,
took her into my arms-
literally into my lap-
and asked why she hadn’t responded.
It was a different woman.
I know I do what I feel,
but it’s just a desire to know-
to know if I am felt.
I want to know if I am like you,
and you are like me.
Love is emotional.
Interactions are psychological.
Intimacy is physical.
Let’s confuse all of them, sweetheart,
while your biology pulls into the station of lust.
[…] Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 97 — Reflection: Misfired […]