Pulling Ivy

You spoke to me from a fence,

I walked away with ugliness all over my face

and in the morning, when I looked into your mirror

it rejected me again

I asked you to stop singing me love songs in public places,

and wanted you tell me how you felt about my privates,

maybe you don’t find pleasure in pulling ivy,

those knitter’s hands, displaying patience,

I closed the door to your wilderness,

imagining indigo images of the grassy places left,

making fakes out of the originals,

I found your cryptic drawing, a perfect lawn, a lone tree losing its leaves,

out there past the wooden fences, that dark forest whispers to me

the clenched fist of missing out on knowing someone   

telling stories to myself again about the meaning of it all,

spinning it in a colorless yarn,  

now silence, filling my sails of self doubt,

and soon, the beautiful curves of the earth

will take you from my horizon