:this is not an attack:

                                             fuck "realistic".
that word you chose so carefully
seeming to imply
        that there was something wrong with my daisy-chain universe.
[as it is a way of looking at the world
and as you used it you sum up the whole of this creature,
there obviously must be something in it that you like].

And all I can say is
"Who could stand to be so critical?":
unwilling as she seems to delve herself deep enough into life
  and open her eyes and find the core of another person.

And as I speak the words that come to me too often:
"but she doesn't even know you."
I can't help but wonder
     [somewhere in the pit of my stomach,
          or perhaps the swelling of my throat
                    (/in that day I was silent/)
          or even in the stinging behind my eyes]
maybe it's me, after all, that misinterprets you
  but then I see it
  after hours
    when I pull you on a string
       (and on the other end is the word "why":
          a nonsensical thing you never would have spoken before)
and slowly you unwind
  shed yourself of them
  and your other self
    [as in those moments when
     you have the urge to kiss me
          .lovingly
     (just before you stop yourself
      by placing a finger on my lips
      and put something just that small between us)]

But something in that breaks me:
  you dance only on your own time
          [except, it seems, for gold stars]
and every word. every moment is hard-won
from the clutching jaws of everyone. and everything.
        (else.)
and even then
        something in your eyes
          or perhaps your voice
        says "now is not the time."
as if you're being overly gracious
in even acknowledging my words
  in that quick, side-comment manner that you retain
[save those moments when we're alone]

And I have yet to understand
how you can speak only five words to me
    (if I only count the ones started by you
      and only those that have any meaning
             [to you])
and do these things
and still say
    you care for me so much

[and I really meant that charm
      the one you casually carry with you.
                        every day.]

And I know I promised, [however silently], not to do this
         (whatever "this" is)
[but I knew, even then, that it wouldn't work]
and I'm sorry for complicating your life again
         (whatever "your life" is)
but

hear me
(?)

date:October 25, 2007
Anything I could say about this poem seems to personal to post online. Ironic, isn't it, considering the other things I've posted. All I will say is that it is exactly how it is.