You, the dead of winter.
I, the reincarnation of spring.
You’re my gospel, yet
you’ve never believed in faith.

You, the stinger of a honey bee.
I, sunshine and lemon trees.
Always giving you enough sugar
to make life sticky sweet,

but the lemonade seems to remain sour.
I still pour a glass and see it half full,
but you seem to look right past and
view the world half empty.

I experience life through a wide
angle lens, full technicolor.
But you always have tunnel vision,
my monochromatic lover.