Me, I'm fine, I'm

getting older

(getting along)

I'm beginning to realize: this world isn't exactly a blank canvas for my taking

it's not made of snowy empty pages waiting for my kiss, my genius

I'm beginning to resent: it's waiting for yours.

I'm not meant to be extraordinary, am I? Much as I'd like to be

(And, oh, I'm delusional—I'd do best as a businessman's wife,

making babies and cosmopolitans, lounging

in a silk bathrobe, and smiling—but that's another story)

But you, you're brilliant, and as much as I'd love to hate you


my archetypal hero, and you make my ink-splotch life's meaning crystal clear

(Rorschach-style, giving me another view)

with your beautiful broad hands and your smile, and I

couldn't live without you, bastard, so

I guess my epic life plan

is out; I'll watch yours instead, and I won't even mind, because

You're waiting for my kiss.

You are my genius.