turtlesoup.

it is a tuesday, and i am crying.
i can hear the rapid pace of the
watch on her left wrist. i am
nestled in her ears with words
to complain about. i ask her,
knowing she will have an answer;

"why does it rain so much?"
"because, you kill all of the spiders
in the basement."

she does know, and i agree. because
the body count is very high. i remember
that i hate her, and retract my
acceptance of her thoughts.

it is monday, and i am erratic.
i can hear the shower as she squeezes
all the water from her hair. i am
curled to the corner of the couch
and i can hear the shower turn off.
she asks me, knowing i will have no
answer;

"why did you drink all of my coffee?"
"because."

she rolls her eyes, and finally states
that she wishes i wouldn't use
her snow-man mug. it is her favorite.

it is sunday, and i am smiling. i
can hear two brothers and two sisters
in the front yard. i am standing on a
chair in the kitchen, examining the
top of the cupboards. she asks me,
knowing i will have a plausible answer;

"what are you doing?"
"everything is so dusty."

she walks away smiling, mumbling
something about the middle child
being the weird one. and quickly
i remember i love her. and continue
my inspection and scrutinizing of
her cleaning habits.

it is tuesday again. i am calm. and i
can hear her crying.
i tell her i hate her because
i remembered that i do. and she tells
me that i am too complex.
and then i ask her,
knowing that there will be an answer;

"do you hate me now?"
it is rehearsed;
"never."

and i forgot to remember i love her.