they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******)
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~

Somebody bundled
it into a clock
and slung it up high on a wall,

with numbers
like bars between us,
where there had been nothing before;

before,
my days had come open,
open and endless like sky,

but boxed on the wall
there looked no room for all
of the rest of my lifetime and I.

I was never mad that you lied about the smallest of things.
The things that hurt the most when found that they were indeed true.
If anything you taught me that sometimes faith can easily be misplaced.
Over time it became hard to look in your eyes,
A place I found myself disappearing to often.
Confusing truth for comfort,
Realizing that in a world of fabrication, The best truths are raw.
Often unclothed. A natural happening.
This is what lured me to your eyes.
Not once paying attention to what was going on around me,
Not until the last minute.
The things taken for granted.
The unease hesitation of hands. A certain anxiousness
That shook with the reach of your hand.
Slowly watching a different you appear.
No longer soft, genuine.
Left with the answer to why most facades exist.
A simple truth I myself overlooked in the way that I loved you.
Instead, taking gallons of lighter fluid.
Soaking every inch of myself then placing the box of matches in your hand.
Knowing the outcome. Knowing the difference between right and wrong.
But still having faith that you wouldn't do the things I knew you would.
This was the faith that I had that you were exactly who you said you were,
that you loved me the same exact way that I loved you.
Misconstruing the spark from the box of matches as the spark I seen when we first met.
Mistakes are not uncommon, in most cases it's what's done after that really matters.
Despite the sudden jitters that overwhelmed you, I provided my arms as a place of shelter.
A place that without question, you'd know without a shadow of a doubt would always have comfort.
Never truly realizing that most things of that nature are treated as one sided.
A incomplete truth, selfish in the same nature. 
No matter what superficial truth I saw you wrap yourself in to grant ease of comfort.
I was never mad at you,
How could I be mad at you for being who you were all along.
Learning a fraction, as to why wolves often choose sheep's clothing