She Hated/Loved Me

She would call me faithless,
meaning it an insult, I'm sure,
but I'd just grin crookedly,
a wink and a smirk in my eye,
and say "'tis true."

She hated me more than she loved me
(she loved me enormously)
and I loved her more than I hated her
(but I didn't hate her at all).
We met at my door and parted
at her step–
she never once invited me in.

She blushed when she saw me,
scowled when I left
(then said "good riddance"),
but she always pulled me back.

We were resistless
when together. I pulled at her
wool strings and she followed
even when they broke. I
could make her forget her
faithful adherence; it
was she that took my worship
(because in my eyes she
stood like an ivory idol tall).
And in the end, it was for me
that she turned away.

She broke off from her two
millennia foundations, and
came to dance with me in the night
of the sun.

But her mind was not made like mine,
and she lost herself in the
sorrow of eternal death. I tried
to put her on a pedestal
and she cursed my name for
freeing her.

I shoved her in a wardrobe,
put a lock on the door,
but the hinges crumbled away
as she sobbed.
She walked out a frightened
woman, cringing from
the stares of the crowd,
knowing that they knew
her for a hypocrite.

I held her fragilely,
but she hated me
because I stole her clear
from blindness.

We stood on her porch and
she brushed away my lips,
closing the door on her
wavering smile. She admired
my courage, cherished my arms.
I was too good, said she,
but not the right good for her.