These days

a lot of things
seem
two-dimensional
except for
what you said.
You said,
"I like this girl. She's kinda like you," and you kept going ...
but in hope's hands
what you said is malleable
sometimes it is soft,
sometimes the rough contours of its nagging tell otherwise,
at times it leads the mind upward, when you look at it,
at times it shimmies with the mind
downstairs into
an abstract
abyss
sometimes it is too heavy for lifting,
sometimes it is friendly
and I toss it around a little in dreams,
at other times it is painted:
a machismo red on the verge of mahogany;
a petulant pink when I speak of it in secret;
a camera-flash awe when I picture you saying it --
but mostly it is stuck in
a blue period when my hands
are most idle and I
consider the consequences
of
being too hopeful.
Please don't think this unkind
but right now it is
most ambivalent and
I wish it to
weigh nothing,
show nothing,
and speak nothing:
I wish it
to be
words
only.