He’s thin as a rail with this equally thin
yet deceptively puffy, oversized jacket-
navy, that
he never removes.

He’s also got a farmer’s hat
with secret script written round the rim.
He never removes this,
save for in prayer.

He claims that he’s an alien.

It’s probably because somebody told him
that society’s depravity
runs through human blood.

He’s touchable as a teddy bear,
with these high-fives and shockingly gentle
bony fingers he uses to help you
scurry up hills and cross rivers.

He’ll also clasp them over yours
or use them to hold your shoulders, as he
whispers oddities into your ear.

He won’t hug you though; He jumps when he’s brushed.
He claims hugs are an odd, humanoid function.

It’s probably because somebody told him
that love is better shown by making
heart shapes with one’s hands.

I asked him one day if he’d hug his children.
He claims he’ll never marry.

It’s probably because somebody told him
that humans and aliens
can’t interbreed.

I’d like to change his mind;
I daresay he’s never tried.

I daresay he makes a lovely human;
He’d like to change my mind.

I claim that I’m going to marry him someday.

It’s probably because we both make statements-
ridiculous ones- that we’d like, in secret,
to believe.

He doesn’t know that we’re destined yet,
but he’ll see.

Yes, he’ll see
that humans and aliens can interbreed
or that he himself is a human indeed.

I claim that I’m in love with him.

It’s probably because a few of my statements
are slightly less ridiculous
than his are.