I don’t like him

I don’t like him I say. Dreaming and imagining a place of our own to stay.  Thinking about what dinner we’d have Sunday, and how it could be the same or different as Monday. 

He doesn’t love me I claim. He tells me everything in his brain. Without a sugarcoat, all that he shares with me can spend hours in the rain. He says he hates to see me cry, all tear stained. It is certain that our love will never wane.

My space is too small and he doesn’t know me at all. Every moment he can, he gives me a call. I get frustrated because I have a better record and recall, so his affections don’t always land or fit in my basket snug, almost don’t fit at all.  If he thinks he’ll forget, he writes it down. He wrote all of his vows. He has me as his wife and he is my gift from Goddess herself, from grandmothers ascending onward through you, wishes so powerful they dare call them spells.

May we never find ourselves too far from our well, and never acquainted with a dry spell.