I am perpetually angry at you and I never seem to know why.

You hate the fact that my key is orange and my post-it notes

are not yellow.

I am a flaming dagger and you are an alcohol-soaked sponge --

if it wasn’t for your fearful eyes, this would have ended sooner.

Keys, mostly white and ephemeral, are the only things that we

share – I wish I loved you more, I wish my hate consumed me.

I wish that things right in front of my eyes were carved from

truth and pewter - with hard, white edges and brass-cornered

ends and leathery, beaten faces.

You dump red paint on my forehead - and wonder why I don’t

ask for the brush.

Perhaps it would be different if you’d learned to swim, or could

have thrown a football.

Only a yellow substance, excreted as a component of bile, can

explain this expanse between us, can drag you out from inside

your cave of bleak, passionless mornings that keep you out of

your life.

Even without the autopsy I would have known the truth.

Yours is too thin to exult in our victories, and mine is too thick
not to dance.