why should we love men
when they are so careless about their health,
even if it so crosses over someone else’s concern,
prefer work over a slated date,
forget there is someone waiting on the other end because of a game, (dogs of technology)
would get irked with the slightest of mistakes,
bitch around when exhausted,
too lazy, too clueless to dig what it is that traverses the lines of our minds,
are too emotionally bald to figure out what women long for,
and say that they know every inch of you,
the meaning of silence and a squirm
they, who try to justify all actions with a reason or two
-that change with the same situation, with the same root-
them, li’l reckless bastards who are as comfortable
as dried leaves falling down the ground when in a commitment
too easy to even ask, to think, to spark romance not based on routine,
or what they have grown up with
-and even us couples need to grow together-
they who know what they want, when they want it, how they want it, the way they demanded it,
and question us of ours on rare occassions
they who love with utter simplicity;
no surprises,
no waves of spontaneity no flowers on anniversaries,
no twisted candles or primly-set platters
or your favorite food cooked by your favorite hands
those hands that feel so different everytime,
those hands that do the most foolish of things,
but still feel the kindest when touching every inch on and inside of you,
those hands that belong to a creature most defied,
most detested in periods like these
but are most longed for at the same time that though eyes meet with resistance (feminism raging like the grace of an activist)
you fall
fall harder not of hate
but of a love
reverent, prideless,
kneeling as Psyche did once
