I like you

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I like you.
You're unfussy,
and uncomplicated.
You're gentle
in your disposition
and I can feel
the weight lifted
from the circles
in which we're spinning.
Meaning need not apply.

I like your quiet,
and the way you
can touch my hand
and I feel no more
than Saturday evening.

I like the way
you take your clothes
from my apartment
and you don't presume
to leave them as if to imply
consistency or purpose.
I hate laundry not my own
and the person who's left them
for me to assign meaning to.
You shower in the morning,
and then you're gone.

I like the way you calm
my fears of needs or thoughts
of love and hope.
I need you not to need me
because my life is a mess,
without your laundry perched
on my floor, needing the clean
and time. And talk of tax returns
and birthday parties and family
reunions.

I like the way we don't fight.
And Friday we can exist
for sex and food and a friendly face.
And you can hold me,
not out of hunger or
need, and your eyes don't cloud
over and you don't shout,
and I don't have to cry or
wait for you to grow up,
or learn to dance,
be sensitive,
get a job,
get a car,
get ready,
get serious,
be happy,
be on time.

And I like the way you
held me last night
and I could feel your breath on my neck
and you could be so still,
making mountains out
of my naked skin,
Everest.

But I hate you, too.
Because, in the stillness,
in which you held me
and your hands on my skin,
firm, compelling my thoughts
to the job and the car and
the time at which I was going to
see you tomorrow. Be on time.
My being honest
and good
and wondering
what you're thinking
and feeling
and touching
when you're not touching me.
Because I need you.





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