He’s so smooth; soft and stupid,
He’s sardonic, with sadness in his eyes.
I find that he isn’t beautiful—
(Although he’s perfect inside and out)—
That I don’t find him appealing,
Regardless of appeal.
He’s an unnecessary coefficient,
Rhetorical, relaxed, and relatively reversed,
And he leads me through dreams,
Of things I’ve never seen.
Still when I see him,
I feel that he isn’t made of atoms,
Not quite human,
He isn’t made of atoms, no,
He’s a Martian of tiny miracles.
I hate to speak to him,
Or look at him,
But I find I can speak to him of anything.
We lay in bed together and talk,
Of how light is formed from hydrogen atoms,
Of electrons falling through orbitals,
And exothermic reactions.
We stare at each other,
And discuss the fifth dimension—
He claims it’s love, but that doesn’t exist!—
And if time travel is possible.
He says I’m more intelligent that him (he may be right),
But I still can’t drive stick shift,
I don’t know how to build a fishing pole,
Or how to even how to fish in general,
Or how to change a tire,
Or how to eat two full meals in 6 minutes.
I find myself telling him of a universe,
That doesn’t even exist,
And he teaches me about a life,
That doesn’t even exist.
I find that I can’t live without him,
But though I hate to, I have to.