I hate how you sit out on the dock in the late afternoon sun
with your canvass and paints. Stretching me and pulling me
for nothing but the pleasure of your latest muse. I hate
that you get to talk to the strangers fishing down the way
and the only people I have are the wooden planks you push me into.
And believe me they are horrible conversationalists.

You run after butterflies to match your paint to their wings
and softhearted blades of grass try to dry my tears. Darling,
I love you, I hate you, I love you but i don't love you anymore.
You get to live your life and manipulate me however you wish.

Only next time we play this little game of ours
you'll be my shadow
and I'll be your
master