For Nobody

You're so lucky.
You're so lucky I bet you have no idea
how impossible you are to please.
You don't know what you want.
You don't need to know what you want.
If you're very intelligent indeed,
you know that you don't know what you want.
You're so infuriating.
You're so infuriating I wish
there was something
(I wish there was anything)
I loved more than pleasing you.

And you know why?
Because there's nothing you hate more
than when I try too hard to please you.
You only like it
when it's as if by accident.
("Oh, I was just on my way
to give these flowers
to somebody else.
But you can have this one."
You'd love that,
although you'd pretend to hate it.
You'd love it so much
you might even slap me.)
Of course when I say "you"
I'm speaking generally.
There's nobody in particular
I've got in mind.
You know very well this is all
just idle speculation,
just like you know
I never engage in any kind of double talk.

You know what I can't stand about you?
I hate the way I care
that you exist.
Not even in the, "Eww,
get it away from me!" way
I care most people exist.
It's weird, it's like
I want to be around you
and make you laugh
and do little things to make you smile.
I want to kiss on you, and touch you,
and whisper in your ear at night.
I want to make things for you
that you can enjoy,
or at least that make you feel things,
and I want you to be happy
I made them for you,
and maybe be impressed that I did a good job
when I do a good job.
I don't want to do that
with most of the people I meet,
so I guess you're kind of special.

But it's no big deal or anything, though.
It's just whatever.
Like if you've got the time,
or if you're into it,
or whatever.
That kind of thing.

(Photo credit: "The power of love (276/365)" from Tim Geers on Flickr)

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