The Sky is Blue, Unless It's Azure.

Legs rasping in time,
Cricket plays beautifully.
Dance tiny Cricket!

“I wrote it for you.”

“I get that. Who else do you call Cricket?”

“No one.”

“That was a rhetorical question - and for the record, female crickets don't chirp.”

“Oh.”

“It's essentially the orthopteran equivalent of gorillas pounding their chests, there's nothing beautiful about it.”

“It never hurts to portray things in a positive light.”

“So if I write a gentle, metaphor cloaked haiku on orchiectomies, would it make the subject matter any less grotesque?”

“I suppose not.”

“A stunning metaphor for our relationship! An attractive, ill-conceived mess wrapped in your optimism and nailed to the floor by my immovable realism.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Is that all you wrote to say?”

“Mostly.”

“I love you too... don't ask for me back.”

“Why?”

“Because female crickets don't chirp.”