yes, but, the problem is

the problem is, i don't hate him.
the problem is, he ticks a bunch of boxes
the problem is, on paper it looks great
the problem is he went to the right schools
the problem is, he looks after me when i ask him not to
the problem is, he knows what the done thing is
the problem is, he knows who ross edwards, or carl vine is
the problem is he will be late, but he will be there
the problem is he can't smalltalk, but will tuxedo up for me
the problem is, he likes cassis, and eiswein
the problem is, he recites iron chef
the problem is, he adores me, just badly
the problem is he loathes bad design
the problem is, he's a snob, like me
the problem is he will rescue me, even when i fight it
the problem is he always has

the problem is, i grew to love him
the real problem is, i don't love him enough.

show me yours and i'll

when you're in love...
there's this... sweet, vulnerable bit, that is the bit of you i most want to see. underneath the masks real and imagined and layers of personality... heartbreakingly tender and almost too much to bear. and too much to bare, as well... it's the bit you're terrified of showing. the deepest you, stripped of every trapping. and you hold it cupped in your heart, flinchingly showing glimpses if you dare, because you know the what if? would shatter you apart. petrified when it's seen without you realising. but melting and going weak at the knees at the same time, because the oh! what if! tastes as sweet as life itself. and that's worth everything, isn't it? show me what feels like a soul.

...you, me. same thing.

walls

Sleep takes so long to come, and then I dream. Last night I dreamt I was tied to a cold stone wall, no, nothing delightful about it, sobbing until I retched and could barely breathe. I woke up with marks from my nails in my palms. Wet cheeked, and my mouth tasting of bile.

open

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
(e. e. cummings)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands