I hate him so.

Jesus, looking at him is such a woe. 

With his stupidly pretty dirty blond, almost brown hair, 

and his eyes of which their color I cannot name, too afraid to stare.

His clear-rimmed glasses fit his face perfectly,

and his mouth does so even more

—smile leaving me looking wordlessly. 

Voice deep and purposeful, the sound

rumbles through my own chest. 

From this soul torturing admiration must

be wrest. 

He enters a room and I suddenly can’t

breathe, 

leaves and I’m back to myself, shedding

that person I am underneath. 

He’s the muse, I’m the poet, 

destined to exist in a time where he’ll

never know it. 

Names of the same letter,

yet I am nothing like him.

For I feel too much too strongly and

he’s undoubtedly better. 

And always apart but never a part is the

life in which I swim. 

I cannot tell if I want to be him or simply

want him.

The thought of either is tearing me limb

from limb. 

A poet is cursed to always feel out of

place,

the odd Jew out, the girl floating in

space.

I admire him so.

Gravitate to him I do without slow.

Only here in words can I lay everything

bare. 

Thinking about his lovely to-be

-determined colored hair. 

Perhaps in another life I will know the answer.

But for now—in this one—I can be your aimless dancer. 

All the things I want to know.

How I hate him so.