When I think of you,
As but dust
In a carbon filter
I am disgusted
In the fact
That
This is what
Was expected

And thus,
I would not be
Anything
But
Trusting
as I am,
Gush
At the thin
varnish
Of your skin

When,
Perhaps
You had found
Gladness
In a day,
Or in an
arcsecond
Of the sun

You would
Know
Nothing
In the way
That I do--

That is the curse
Of us
And thus
I make my
Words
With love.