I find it really ironic. The one thing I need is the one you can’t give. The hopeless, helpless sorrow. I cry. Because when everything beckons, your eyes, I’m the one that has to hold me back. You’re perfect. Your shimmer, your touch, your sparkle, your smile. The way you’re eyes are just a bit too close together. On your forehead. The way your golden, crisply fried skin stretches divinely, like a pagan god, of picnics perhaps, tautly, around the smooth, never-ending hillside of your arms. Crescendoing. Your towel-sweaty, small hands. Tiny and mighty. The way your too-close eyes, in their darker-than-coffee brown glimmer, your nostrils flare in that sweet parallel, that harmonious rhythm I know too well, from watching too many times. Yet I still delight, giggle every time. You’re invaluable. Constantly asking, working to break my shell, but you’re just breaking me down. Because you beg to help, for me to be the weaker and you the all-knowing, for me to give in, and close my eyes, and allow myself to be blind, forced guidance. You crave to solve the problem, giddy as you take pleasure in seeing the problem, before then unraveling it. But the funny thing is, me, the one you're so desperate to crack, mine dangles, bold, primary colors. The capitalist rubber with its distinct gluttonous, cliché Americanism and an effervescent, moon-crest glint. Carnival panache on a basic, white string, hanging. Dangling just centimeters away from the perfectly fine point where his two souls practically meet, the bridge of his endearingly wide, flat nose. It’s always there, the burden that you so menacingly yearn to pummel. And in your begging, and pleading, and unrelenting wit, and cruelly impeccable sarcasm, and delectably yet typically flirtatious comments, you’ve dismantled me. Killed me softly, as you’ve taken me apart. You’ve created a major problem, and one you can’t fix. Because the beholder is blind. Because the only stronghold I have has devastatingly failed miserably to recognize the boulder of a problem laying right between his very perfect, ruthlessly delicious eyes: He is the problem.