They say we have seven mate,
Each from one life, whom we
might have had, nothing but hate
for who they were, a life of a grape or kiwi,
grated in between the stones of grind as bait.
I feared always, how do I know
If I loved the one of seven and not hate?
My mind remained confused as I knew,
but it always said, “It could be amongst the one, but no,
not the one I do not hate.” I searched and found one day,
on a chair, a man who was not amongst one
whom I could hate, but then we met
and he said, “wait, ugh, one second.”
I knew, my hearts in pieces, perhaps
I was not the one he could not hate.
Now I am and here you are.
I see you and feel you,
So what do I do? You are the doodle which could fiddle
a story whole, into pieces random to fit in a hole.
If I could find the pieces, I could find your bruises,
and then maybe, just that wee little maybe,
We could be one and the whole. You and I
in this universal goal, tucked tightly in, to solve another
crossword puzzle bold, dresses and cruises,
Joys galore, you in me and in you my rouges.