Nothing Bothers Me But You
This is not a love poem,
nor any petty confession,
not a tone-deaf paean of praise
for whatever and whomever.
This is a faceless man entering your mind;
typing, pecking at a keyboard,
lifting the roof off your stark little hutch.
I have liked you too much
and yet I know the wrongly overrated
ask only to be hated, but
the only thing that bothers me
is why you bother me so much.
I imagine banging on your skull
listening for something
more interesting than
what you are thinking now.
Will we always be
this disappointed in each other?
Drink up sisters and brothers,
the wine at the end of the bottle
is where all love sours.
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