I hate him so. Jesus, looking at him is such a woe.  With his stupidly pretty dirty blond, almost brown hair,  and his eyes of which their color I cannot name, too afraid to stare. His clear-rimmed glasses fit his face perfectly, and his mouth does so even more —smile leaving me looking wordlessly.  Voice deep and purposeful, the sound rumbles through my own chest.  From this soul torturing admiration must be wrest.  He enters a room and I suddenly can’t breathe,  leaves and I’m back to myself, shedding that person I am underneath.  He’s the muse, I’m the poet,  destined to exist in a time where he’ll never know it.  Names of the same letter, yet I am nothing like him. For I feel too much too strongly and he’s undoubtedly better.  And always apart but never a part is the life in which I swim.  I cannot tell if I want to be him or simply want him. The thought of either is tearing me limb from limb.  A poet is cursed to always feel out of place, the odd Jew out, the girl floating in space. I admire him so. Gravitate to him I do without slow. Only here in words can I lay everything bare.  Thinking about his lovely to-be -determined colored hair.  Perhaps in another life I will know the answer. But for now—in this one—I can be your aimless dancer.  All the things I want to know. How I hate him so.