A piece of the accent wall
is different from the others.
The color so subtle
most do not notice.

Tapping for sound, we
found hidden nails
showing hidden structures
and drew lines down them.

Pretending to know, I
measured and marked while
you stained. Pickled White
they called it (our fourth choice).

(We both know
there is a kind
of comfort
in making).

After, a mermaid touching naked knees,
more water (you said),
with burnt clinching toes.
Knee to knee we both tried to be seen

And fail, the varnish sticks all too closely—
What truth is truth
that too often quails?
I wanted us to be connected there.

Like the time we cleaned, and
you showed me the dog hair,
collected, on the floor. There was
never a time I loved you more.

But now I cinch, and hold, and wait.
Did we always guess it was going to fail?
We both know there is a kind of comfort
in making.

I’m sorry for the times I molded you
out of worried thoughts and expectations.
Striving not observing,
I gave up giving in.
Falling in love forgetting self,
lest you become alone.

I miss you, love.
Even with all the
Rediculous contradictions.
The misspellings and things we tell ourselves.
Not lies, but maybe closer to stories—

I try to be cute and clever,
Distracting from the fact
That it was given up on.
Confusing thought with expectation,
At what age do you assume you know?

I yearn very hard to be more
Than myself; a trait that’s honestly
So ******* tiring. But
My father, at this age,
Told himself he was in love.

I am maybe three when he
Pulled my mother across the room,
By her hair,
They stayed together for 25 years.
And still even now when

I look at him, not thinking
Of those times and feeling,
With all sincerity, Love
For him.
He is himself.

I hurt you in different ways.
And hurt myself even more.
And so tired, tired of
Spacing each line in some special
Way to say some special feeling.

I want to just feel
With true sincerity the things
That need telling.
No metaphor, or simile,
I miss you imperfectly missing.