I hate how you become crystalline
losing that stiffness laid upon your arms,
as if daisies grew where your nerves
once were, they had trembled up –
wet climate, trembling down your face.

And the little army of tears builds
a mountain between us, lava seeps red:
I am unarmed compared to sadness.

You, bright and so clearly agonized,
the tortoise shell is clever in its respite –
shields green from gentlemen until
they hardly believe that they are alive.

I despise what the dampness can do
sometimes slipping you rigid while I am
concrete asleep in a nearby bedroom,
under linen and hardly a human –
your shine so pure it overwhelms mine.