The Stink of Think

Please believe me when I say it's not on purpose . . .
It's not like I saw the 'filthy stupid hobbitses' and thought of you. No, you're a tad bit too tall, and a little less than rough around the edges.
And that chapstick on the counter, well, you look nothing like it
yet I see you in everything.

And somehow everybody knows when I'm thinking of you.
It doesn't matter what I try-- rolling in mud, splashing through creeks, even keeping air-freshener sticks in my pockets-- the stink of think just wont. Go. Away.

And perhaps at one point that stink was more of a pleasant breeze.
A fragrant perfume, or the sweet-smelling flowers that grow in your yard.
But even fragrant perfume can be worn too much and sweet smelling flowers, though they fight,
         
                   striving
                                                                     reaching
                                                                                                             
                              begging and grasping for life, 

will succumb to the winter air.

So I suppose I do think of you. And I suppose at one point I might have called it love.
Yes, like the fairy-tales, I remember.
But those memories have turned sour.

Cinderella has gone barefoot
                      and Rapunzel now sports an afro.
                                           
Don't flatter yourself.
Because though I think of you

it's in a confused-newborn sort of way.