Clairvoyance and the Lost Arts

She walks into the room and I smile.
She leans over to kiss me and my heart flutters,
just as it did the first time she practiced this lost art
of loving me tenderly.
Without warning, she wounds me with subtle words,
seemingly innocent conversation
gone horribly awry in an instant,
and my eyes erupt,
betraying me (why?!),
and my misunderstood ire bubbles over
but it’s simply a mask for my frustration
that she doesn’t know me as well
as I want her to,
without me saying a word.
My unintentional love for this fair maiden
leaves me chronically disabled,
wanting, always wanting, more and more of her,
willing her to be clairvoyant
so that we might never argue, ever again.
When she leaves, the room darkens a little
as though the light is now gone.
She walks into the room again and I smile.
Her dismay still lingers, staining the moment,
and I want nothing more than to rewind
that previous moment again and again and again
so that her smile will never waver.
I will myself to learn but I never learn.


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