Hey, and isn't that what you want to be?

Typed out from a keyboard
lifesize or small,
Or spoken
crackling on my answering machine...
your compliments facinate me.

Each word you speak adds to this growing mixture in my head.
It gets murkier and murkier each day,
like many different colors of paint added to water.

Really what I want
-is it too much to ask?-
is what I first percieved...
my perfect fantasy.

But instead you are deception.
You are everything that is unclear.
You are the taste of pomegranate seeds,
full of perfection and awe,
until their flavors vanish,
and leave that odd bitter taste on your tounge,
reaching your hesitant hand out for more.