Bother

It must be exceedingly difficult
to be you.
I realize that waking up
with a golden face
and a golden heart
and a golden voice
and a golden future
and a golden soul
must be an excruciating experience for you.
I apologize that I can only empathize with a mere portion of your agony.

I probably seem pretty pathetic to you,
after all the golden beauties that have feigned
interest in your religion,
that have pressed themselves into your mind
and other places,
that looked like you -- golden-faced angels --
and diappointed you.
Deeply.
And it hurt.

And now you don't bother.
You don't bother because something was too confusing.
Something was too consuming.
Something was too serious.
Something wasn't serious enough.

Something was perfect.
And it stills hurts
to think about
and to taste
like embers that refuse to turn grey
and burn red-hot like your heart
when it burned for her.

Sometimes you feel like you need
someone else until you
pick up your six-stringed lover
and strum her chords
just the way she likes.

Sometimes you feel like you need
someone else until you
turn your golden face to its Creator
and sings at the top of your lungs
the first words that come to mind.

And they are: "I love You."

And I understand. I do.

That's why you captivate me.

That's why I bother you.

And if you would bother, you would know that.