"I'm hard to love," you said.
You said this when your eyes were glazed over
your hushed tone transmitted
through telephone cords
that matched the sky.

I didn't believe you,
because you were the word highlighted in flourescent yellow
while all the others were gray.
You were the star that still shined
behind thick, heavy fog
but still outshined
New York's lights.

But when harsh whispers
on late, Saturday nights
were transmitted from you to me,
I kept your words
in thought.

I kept them through lonely weekends
when your presence was your ghost,
and ongoing static radio was
running in my brain.

I kept them
when your veins grew so large
that they pulsed out of your mouth.

I kept them through loneliness
that hovered behind your eyes and ears
and I must've gotten too close,
because it found its way
to me.

But I forgot them
when you kissed me.
The thousands of steamy and salty ones
that left my lips dry and hot
but begging for more.

And on October 19th,
the night of the football game
with the mediorce hot chocolate
and stuffy noses,
I found myself in my bed.
I was in my white hoodie with the oil stain on the sleeve,
laying on a tear and crumb stained pillow.
Then I realized;
you weren't hard to love.

"I just hate loving you."