i hate the way i love you.

i hate the way you smile,
i hate the way you laugh.

i hate how i know you have a dimple,
there, right there, on the side of your cheek.

i hate how you are like sunlight hitting a shimmering puddle,
as if you had the power to lift clouds and calm storms.

you don't have that power.

I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape

You're a red harp with veins painted on the side

When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words

Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands

I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor

You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design

I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor

When I fear the apologists

You fear the escapists

I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness

You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins

I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing

At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides

I am an island in a puddle of sand

I can view the places of rain memory..
Where the puddles gather ready to be taken by to the sky..
The sun calls to the waters...
And slowly takes it back to the clouds..
You had to kiss the earth before you become and Ocean..
And soon you will become a tide to greet the Earth again..
Only this time the moon will call to you to do so..

Wrapped tight in a grey blanket
Staring for what feels like hours
Dead inside
And the soft fabric slowly sleeps as minutes pass
Until it sits around my waist
I stand up to readjust
The only movement in hours
The blanket falls from the chair
A puddle of sadness on the floor
I scoop it up and let it hug around me one more
Returning to my staring it does it once more
My grey puddle of sadness on the floor