Picking Pears

Plucking pears from branches
hanging low bearing their children
and I can’t tell if your eyes are
wondering amongst the fruits or me.

The next morning light I awake
and thoughts of you seem so weak.
The lines speak so many volumes in
between, but the story seems surreal.

Funny stars twinkling in cahoots of
what I imagine must be a celestial joke.
Jokes; I stopped worrying about what I
seem like from the outside of myself.

I can be honest, and make concrete claims.
I wanted you, but not really you yourself.
It was really the idea of us together that I wanted,
because I thought cohesion could cure.

Your eyes are on fire for those juicy pears.
You only brush my hand when you reach past me.
That being so I’ll let you taste what you desire
and I’ll love the wonderful person I already know.

I figure if one wishes to have me then
I will know; these pallid half-hearted hopes
are beginning to make my head float uneasily.
Impulsion has been my signature, but perhaps no more.