I put my hand on the uneven ridges of the tar. No one cared to make you even, only the multitude of traffic, of cold hard rubber pushing down on you is ever going to make you even.
Somehow I love you. I put my cheek against the very same ridges that have left my hand red and pock-marked. You hurt me, but the more you do the closer I want to get to you.
I want to dismantle you, I try to pry you apart, 'perhaps I can reconstruct you, even as Steven.' So i try, but instead I cut my fingers. They bleed because when they bleed they cry to you, asking you to understand, asking you to see what you are doing to them.
But you stay strong and wilfull. Qualities so much admired by yourself and yours truly and I still try. I want to taste you, so I put my tongue on your ridges, I press my lower lip on your uneveness, spread my arms all over you and press my body against yours.
Maybe if I stand up I will see what I claim to be mine is just one small part of your ever expanding self. That no matter how big I get, I could never hope to measure up to you.
But I don't. I hold on to the little that I have, hoping that someday soon you will see as I see. The world as a tiny home, filled with comfort and fortitude and love and not of the gaseous air you breathe.