I began writing a letter
to you
about the story
of how I hated the glass between us
but the paper slipped and
the ink run off
maybe it was a sign
that I had nothing to say
I incessantly have the need
of reassuring myself
with knowing
clearly
what's happening
and the thing with you is
I have no idea
what is happening
between us
I can't live without symmetry
or order
and your edges are smudged
and you're a complete mess
but you're
so
like
me