As I write this
I struggle to determine
Whether this is prose or poetry.
Maybe it's neither.
Perhaps the single biggest tragedy
Is that you bring out the worst in me.
I'm left wounded
But it's the one blight
On an otherwise flawless canvas.
It isn't even your fault
That such a travesty occurs.
The fingers all point to me
And the voices that have taken hold
Expectation
Frustration
Assumption
Amusing how they all rhyme
Missing that one other rhyming word
That would render them
Irrelevant.
I started on the wrong foot.
This really is intended to be
Quite the opposite of how it now reads
So far.
I shall now devote time
To the myriad of pleasantries
You bring.
Your smile as you get in the car.
The occasional snarky comment.
Your sweaty palm against mine,
I live for these simple moments.
The way your head feels on my shoulder
As I beg you to take a nap.
The way you'd always protest.
The first time you wore a cap.
I love the way you write
And how you go on about your passions.
How you hug me oh so tight.
How you don't give an eff about fashion.
The naughty look on your face
During your pathetic attempts to tickle me.
And all that sniffing. Man. All that sniffing.
That God for perfumes and Duty Free!
I shall end here
Not because there isn't any more
But because this hasn't been well thought-out. (Hahaha!)
I thought I might as well
Squeeze one out
While the emotion is fresh.
P.S. Next time, it will be so much better than this.
