you’re enough to make me hate everyone like you,
every doe-eyed master of minutiae,
the maestri of the moments– i could despise them all,
but none of them more than you.
i could hurt you- oh, god, i could hurt you for so many reasons–
the way your brow creases when you’re thinking,
the sound of your laughter
the darkness of your wise eyes–
your crooked smile,
the songs you wrote.
the way you encourage me when i know i suck at everything,
or your passion that i envy so violently–
or the adorable way that, oblivious to your attempts to flatten it all, your beautiful hair (dark like your eyes– i begged you not to cut it) always manages to wisp near the crown of your head
teasingly tousled, making a child of the man you fight so hard to be.
i keep your songs on my ipod.
(you were always looking for someone to do a duet with.)
i listen to you sometimes and i marvel at the way you can put these things together. i think,
fuck, he’s a genius
and i’m overcome by your brilliance– until i notice how bright the glare is in my eyes from such effulgence.
i wish i’d never realized i loved you,
because now i don’t know how to stop
and unrequited love is bullshit.
and you’d joke. you’d smile, say “make a poem about it”
but don’t you realize i’ve been trying all along and (this is proof) failing?
i would have sung with you, but this time
i think i’ll keep my mouth shut.