Untitled (Jaded)

There are moments when he is soft and sweet
When he weaves me throughout his heart like fragile glasswork
When he harbors unacknowledged hope for a future he places no belief in
But just as often he is bitter
A syrup derived from the inherent flaws in existence condensed to a pinprick of gravity
Stretched thin and indescribably heavy
I would like to say he grows his sweetness within my soil
A patch of wild to soak up the glow that his own bed has no place for
But what we'd like and what we get are often unmet paths under fumbling steps
But still I summon my colors into the sun
And he
Well he endeavors to not bury me under his shadows
His piercing barbs and entangling constructs don't encroach into my cherished places
And with my own hands I cover my pits in thread of rainbow prisms
A delicate patchwork of glimmering spiderwebs that grow sharp with sinking frost
Paper screen mazes and topiary labyrinths
And from my honed edges I regard his writhings and I know that in truth
I don't hate his jaded cynicism or his churning sorrow
I just can't help wishing
They were a bit more beautiful