I don't love you, but…

Oh, the poems I could write of you
With your curry fetish and six-year-old Chucks,
In yellow, with blue ink stains over the laces,
And the anxiety of a hooked fish
Pasted on your face whenever you're making a left turn
Or the trace of a unibrow between your eyes
That you say is only a shadow when the light is right,
Even though I saw the tweezers on your radiator

You, with your phobia of gas stations
And when you knock my cigarette out from between my fingers,
It really kills me more than you know,
because they're only slims and menthols

Or when you tell me I'll never be a good Gwen Stefani
because I'm an alto
Even though you know it's the last thing I ever want to hear,
Or how your voice goes flat anytime you say, "thank you;"
It makes me think you're never really that grateful.

But you're sunny,
the color Yellow,
And I appreciate you and your solar-powered Toyota.