Drove her car into a river just to spite me,

Saw Christmas ornaments among the garbage and proclaimed that signified her life,

Who with no immune system at all contracted every disease around her,

But upon my asking if she was sick announced, "Actually, I'm Alex."

Told me I was less than gallons and was not wrong at all,

But I'm pumping about ten pints of blood in hopes that you'll continue to do the same.

I thought to take you to old Glory Ridge,
A place among the clouds and void of worries.

We could share an evening with the foliage,
Lying on our backs with our self-deprecating jokes.

Soon, the stars will pierce the daylight,

Just lets in more privacy for our shaky conversation.

Turns to cement when the words start flowing...

God knows what I'll say.

I'll take you to Glory Ridge for more than the view,
The scenic trail lined with countless jesters
And I, their king,
Must admit you're right at home among the natural beauties.

You've grown on me very symbiotically.
You've entered my blood stream.
You've raised my heart rate.
You've shown me a crystal lattice of beauty in your eye sockets.
You've convinced me I'm so much more than the average emotional man.
You've shoved the silver spoon into the jugular vein of the patriarchy.
You've never seen your potential in any mirrored distortion.
You've heard my idea of the conceptual us while I was vulnerable and sitting in your car.
You've become my sentimental 3am worries.
You've taken on all my meanings of wonder.
You've absorbed your fair share of sunlight and in your kindness have shared it with me.

You said my art was verse,
But I knew my art was you,
It was simple, it didn't rhyme,

It didn't need to.

I spill out my thoughts every night...
I do it to chronicle everything we say to each other,
The tiny interactions that are thawing my heart that I'd rather not forget.

You see, my brain isn't made like yours,
And there are gaps in my past.

Like Michelangelo did carve his marble or Rodin did shape his mass of bronze, I shape my words so I cannot forget these steps that I take,

One by one with you.

I interpreted Rembrandt as Sadness.
I interpreted van Gogh as Suffering.
I interpreted Titian without Sincerity.
I interpret you simply as Love.

You are art, you do not know.

I don't remember all the paintings I've seen,
And if you are to fade along with them, I'd prefer to fade as well.

Lying on my back and needing a few hours to myself,
Elliott Smith was singing that familiar line in my ear as he did so often when I reached this same threshold of sadness:

"Dreadful sorry, Clementine" ,
And you seemed to know just how dreadful all of it was to me,
Slipping out of my comfort, which is shaky at best in the eyes of the public,

But the tempo did change, Elliott...

And I confess that I don't think I'm killing her,
She won't let me give her life,
She thinks she's glowing right now...
Does it mean she can't comprehend?

Someone should be ashamed, Elliott.

I'd love to sing into her some life she's yet to discover,
Replace her doubt for continued existence with nothing more but yearning for foreign lands, hand in hand with me,

Yet I digress and can only sigh.

I stumbled into you via modern technology,
Shot out of an atom smasher with endless chances
To spark some debate on space and all that lies between the moon and your window.

I like to believe in the odds of random probability,
Taking extraordinary circumstance and crafting it into friendship,

A testament to innovation, modern socialization,
And classically, it's boy meets girl once again, and she's sitting on a fortune of intellect.

Thinking for yourself has unlimited *** appeal behind it, and you're glowing with charisma.

You're my drug, my very own antidepressant.

I thank every God for the atom smasher that made it possible to collide with you.

Sent me to the cabinet for some overpriced wine,

Bottles upon bottles, for if we can't sleep we might as well celebrate.

But it was martinis in the bathtub, your throat burning, you thought it would drown the fire...

Your legs would cramp for hours after, and there's nothing I can do to help,

It's typical and expected.

What can I dare to now term creative expression, with your flower contortions now causing you such pain?

Yet I've been called an artist, but it was Sugar who was dancing with such grace tonight,

Either by design or intoxication.