That winter you left me snow-blind trying to find enough details that would let you know that even though some people have perfect sight,those same people could try to paint you by numbers and they still wouldn't get you right.You were Monet number two and Van Gogh number 6,a mix tape of Hendrix and Leibowitz portraits.It makes no sense to me that we were ever together.And my makeshift weather reports were the closest I ever came to telling you how I felt.But you were a lover of the minuscule,you dealt best with details.Weighing our relationship on scales you balanced us out, and always made me feel needed.You always asked me what to wear,and I would stare at you as if for a second I wouldn't answer.Of course, I always did.Hid my affections, and my response:wear that smile I said.That one you wear when you see me.That one you wear to bed.