You say I
make you happy,
always have.
Then why the burning at the backs of my heels?
This firey weather between us is tiring.
The pushing on my spine with hardened fingers,
A pressing for the forward march: “you are too slow” in the knuckles.
Can you put a constant urging onward,
one at work to detrimental effect,
in the past?
Motion, always a ball of nerves inside
and they can tell.
They stay away. I stay, always.
On edge for you, you don’t notice
or appreciate the struggle.
And I don’t know what to feel
about “you make me happy,” not when you can’t come alive unplanned.
Not when I feel the heat of your ambition, closer than your soft
precise and deep-down love.
Show me,
Break open the core
Let flow all sweetness,
soothing nectar for these blistered limbs.
Show me how happy I make you.
Kaitlin Sansoucie 