Oh, how I love him, at times so much it hurts.

At moments, too often, I catch myself smiling like an idiot who’s to full of himself to see that he’s wrong, and yet like that idiot I willing blind myself with emotion.

At times his touch brings a tender spark to another wise dull sentimental  heart, and other times his actions say more his words, with motions swift and sharp, sharper than any insult  he cuts me, leaving me in pieces. Numb to the wind and words he speaks.

And it is not until those very hands that cut me up, start to sow me together again, do I begin to get that old feeling.- Cole Lolicato