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.