Love me not.

I was there,

A full half in that instant,

Defining it.
To urge you to a remote setting,

Till you were an awkward surreal truth.

You shone in all your pristine,

I couldn’t tell stars from you.

You are immaculate, a perfect form,

Rounded without edges.

But I love the moon,

In all its imperfection,
And the likes.

Flawed conceptions,

Faulty and trying.

Like puzzle pieces, we fit

I’m textured and organic.

Exposed to diseases of the heart and the mind.

Loathing and plaintive.

Spring elates me.

You are a modernist, meticulous,

A smooth molded soul.

I carry with me stains of the past,

And fractures of a dented history.

Your pious white robes,

Your soft spotless palms.

We are a misfit,

My imperfection and your aura

And so I cannot accept

This gift of love from you.