They say we have seven mate,

Each from one life, whom we

might have had, nothing but hate

for who they were, a life of a grape or kiwi,

grated in between the stones of grind as bait.

I feared always, how do I know

If I loved the one of seven and not hate?

My mind remained confused as I knew,

but it always said, “It could be amongst the one, but no,

not the one I do not hate.” I searched and found one day,

on a chair, a man who was not amongst one

whom I could hate, but then we met

and he said, “wait, ugh, one second.”

I knew, my hearts in pieces, perhaps

I was not the one he could not hate.

Now I am and here you are.

I see you and feel you,

So what do I do? You are the doodle which could fiddle

a story whole, into pieces random to fit in a hole.

If I could find the pieces, I could find your bruises,

and then maybe, just that wee little maybe,

We could be one and the whole. You and I

in this universal goal, tucked tightly in, to solve another

crossword puzzle bold, dresses and cruises,

Joys galore, you in me and in you my rouges.