Statuesque

You make me
Feel an infant's ease
Climbing your red-tipped trees.
You condemn
The sky for its size,
The moon for her light,
The rain for your windowpanes.

Black-veined stains
On my neck, in my hair.
Blood breaks
The surface where
Your breath freezes,
Painting their pages
With sweet disdain.

Hammer and chisel
Pound into your eyes.
You
Are
Not
Im
Mor
Tal.

And I am
Not your better.