I love you as if you were one white weathered column,
eternally silent and performing your duty.
I love when you are not beside me smacking that mouth of yours.
I love you a just a little bit, the kind of little bit
offered to the nice neighbor’s jumping dog.
I love you like clammed-up saltwater in my ear.
I don’t have to put up with you,
you, a bloated romance novel;
you, a wind-up toy that has just quit.
I hold you in my tender hands
like a butter knife against the horrible butter.