The thing about him is that he contradicts me 
I had always considered myself to be a technician with words, a musician of the key elements of diction
I held the English language in the palm of my hand like a control, my only outlet to find such
From the the days when my feet could barely stand on their own to the age when I became coherent, I was capable of obliterating every obstacle through this system of scriptures, 
Shredding apart every rule book and anagramming it into my own annotations
My religion has never been more of my own than the day I translated the holy bible to a context with my plot until it told a new story
Now I can preach every verse like I mean it, not a very common skill
No Matter the Robbers or the Paper Castle
The Glass Towns and Diana’s Wreckage
I mesmirize myself by converting titles to truths, infatuated by nature’s sweet juxtaposition 
My infinite mind was fuelled by the increasing capacity of qualifying every statistic and mending my broken pieces to stanzas
As the simple years went on so simply, my sentences lived like songs, like music on all my essays
This poetry swayed like a dance routine, flips and twists for comic relief, ducks in the haze to prove the pain
And every so often, a leap in prosperity
gloom to Gleam to dream
My words were always my strength, my romanticized system of power 
I was language, complexity of latency 
But when I write of him, 
my anagrams are so hazy I can’t relieve their confusion
even my palindromes are backwards
What had once been an anthology of assertion 
Has now forgotten how to alliterate
His eyes hold mine so tight everything seems to rhyme 
And now songs are a shot in the dark he guides me through
I have become deluded in blue as I sulk in his stare
Like a wind making me dizzy and hazed, so high even my hyperboles never feel great enough 
I could once know all at once in their tenses, now it seems like all is knew
So it’s hard to tell what’s learned and forgotten like similes forgetting to compare 
Steady as sand my mind goes empty like aphasia with amesia
And with my pen and my paper I turn to the sky and realize: that open blue of possibility is just the openness of his eyes 
The only word on my mind being “Please.”