i hate talking
to myself about you.

i hate crafting
poetic idioms and metaphors
that only remind me of
walking through endless hallways,
hoping to find the exodus of everything.

i hate counting
the stars on the firmament above —
i know i will always lose count
but i will always count back to the beginning.

i hate visualizing
sceneries that seem to say frozen
in front of me:
two shadows falling on each other
to fill the empty spaces
but the gap will never cease to exist.

i absolutely despise
writing about the curves of your lips
but my mind cannot fathom
how deeply besotted i am with you.

so i turn you into poetry —
because i cannot have you in any other way.