Can you tell me how not to love you?
I can’t seem to figure it out.
It never was a simple problem, but it’s one I feel
I’m obliged to solve.

You had a flicker
For me once, so fragile;
A small spark, static between blankets,
And the after-image is still burned into my eyes,
Making all I see purple and green.

Now no matter how I look at you,
That colourful bruise overlaps, filtering light,
And warps the dark calm of my sleep with visions
Of my past’s future of you.

I watched the sails of our ship flutter as it sank, still docked in the harbor.
I won’t pretend to myself not to know why.
I watched in the evening as the stereotypical sun
Vomited all his colours over the innocent ocean sky,
Apologized,
Then passed out under the horizon.

I only made it worse by trying to pull the ship up by its anchor;
I might as well have tied myself to the end of the chain.

I was living in armor when you taught me to love nakedness,
So I’ll leave it to bare notes to say what overdressed words can’t,
Even though arpeggios mean little to you.

I never did excel at problem solving.
Still, I hate to beg for a solution; but can you tell me
How not to love you?
It’s a problem I thought I was close to solving, until I realized

I had no desire for the answer.