You take off your shirt.
Lie down on my bed.
You're very pretty.
I hate you.

I hate you for being prettier than me.
You tell me to come closer,
you light a candle.
Burn the impatience in my heart.

You turn down the radio, the skin of your
chest in the calm light shining, reflecting almost
my face with it's smoothness and clarity.
I hate you.

But you pull me down, 60 feet beneath the surface,
and I can feel your breath along my face. Warm
and loud, and peacefully provocative.
Tear my soul out because I know you will leave.