If Anything At All

I like the way your eyes sparkle

under your mop of hair --

bright stars winking out

from under voluminous curls.

I love the way your eyes sparkle

with mischievous errand --

bright, clear hazel orbs

winking

with secret pleasures.

I love the laugh,

the smile,

that accompanies those eyes --

so big, so bright,

with teeth so white.

All the world’s happinesses

seem held there in your smile.

I like the way you tickle me --

sharp finger jabs in the sides --

I squeal and curl up

and scootch  away,

but secretly I always want more.

I like the way you admonish me

when I apologize too much --

trying to make me feel better,

live lightly, like you.

I like you, maybe

love you, but

I also hate you, too.

I hate the way you never talk,

never tell us what’s up,

what’s bothering you.

And even more,

I hate what I heard

in your voice,

what I felt

when I heard it.

It wasn’t you,

the you I know,

the voice from you last night,

with that can in front of you

on the desk.

I didn’t like it --

I hated that voice,

a stranger’s voice,

a parody of yours.

I hated those eyes,

the flat dead eyes,

without the sparkle of yours.

What do I want?

What can I have?

If anything at all…

Author's Note

I wrote this at the very beginning of college, and just found it to post -- be kind!
I wrote it after seeing one of my very good friends (male, underage) drunk for the first time.