Sticky

I seem to have,
a fitful habit of,
loving almost everyone,
that I run into,
because I see sadness,
and intelligence,
and passion where,
others see a blank slate.

 

I see too much potential,
in every single thing,
yet I call myself a cynic;
but I fall in love with words,
and I fall further in love,
with the idea of someone,
looking at me long enough,
to see the color of my eyes.

 

I fall in love with how,
someone moves their hands,
when they talk,
and the timid way that,
they behave in front of a crowd,
and how they self-consciously,
cover their gaping mouth,
with their hand when they laugh,
and I have a keen sight,
for noticing those little things,
and developing affection,
for whomever owns them.

 

I fall in love in cycles;
and the only way,
that I can think to describe it,
is by relating my affection,
to a sugar cube,
between someone’s fingertips.

 

Once I hold onto something,
for long enough,
it crumbles between the weight,
of my trembling hands,
and no matter how long,
I desperately try,
to dispose of the ruins,
there are always,
a few sugary granules,
that I am stuck loving.