Your Window

You walk around with your head held high,
Expecting to be adored, patronized, loved.
You walk into the room knowing that I'll look at you,
Because I've haphazardly fallen for you and your
Incessant, annoying and persistent late night phone calls,
Your jerk-ish attitude but calming laughter,
Your brutal honesty and your
Fresh-from-the-laundry scent.
Gosh--I hate you...
I hate the way the corners of your eyes form wrinkles,
And the way tears drop when you're breathlessly
Bursting in a booming laugh.
I hate the fact that I know how you think
But I don't know your thoughts;
I can predict your every move and
Logically explain your every excuse
For doing (or not doing) what you're supposed to do.
I hate the way I look at you from across the room,
To assure that you can still drive home,
And you catch me.
Then, with a bottle in one hand,
Leaning up against the wall,
You wink and smile and act like all is fine and well.
What I hate most is that I expect that from you,
That I can't pull away from your stares,
That I actually want you to see me--
Even if it's only as a friend.
Because those winks,
Those tears, and
Those wrinkles,
Are what opened me up to see and love
Your innocent, oblivious and vulnerable soul.