Seven Minutes Shy of Ten Hours

Okay, we talked and talked. I tried
constantly not to take my side:
you know, the one where I love
mistletoe, pomp and circumstance.

I did remarkably well, I thought.
You were a bit pouty from time
to time, but it was something like
a bit of cinnamon, in the chili.

I called in sick today. I lied.
I told you before, I love too freely,
too much. But it's nobody's fault
that I love you.

On the other hand, it gets a bit
complicated. Real love, to me,
implies real caring. And what
I most want (because I do love you)

is for the one you love
to love you back. Somehow. Maybe
on a rock planet made of granite, somewhere,
that is happening: he

loves you. Perhaps only a little
water in a flat place, with no air stirring,
would be calm enough to be a mirror
and let you see the truth of it. Love, me.