I don't understand women

I don't understand
how you can tell me I'm driving you mad,
then sleep better
simply because I'm beside you.

I don't understand
how a cup left on the table
can become a declaration of war,
but nobody else
is allowed to say a bad word about me.

I don't understand
why the smallest things matter so much:
a forgotten message,
a tone of voice,
a look held half a second too long.
Things so small
I barely notice them.
Until I do.

I don't understand
why you tell me flowers are a waste of money,
then somehow the whole room changes
when I bring them home.

I don't understand
why my jokes annoy you
most of the time,
but if I'm quiet
a little too long,
you always ask
what's wrong.

I don't understand
why sometimes you need me
to leave you alone,
but not so far
that you cannot hear me
in the next room.

I don't understand
why you ask me
blue or green,
listen carefully
to what I say,
then choose blue.
You were always going to choose blue.

I don't understand
how I can spend so much of my life
apparently being in your way,
yet when I'm not there,
something in the house
seems to be missing.

And after all these years,
I still don't understand
when to speak,
when to be quiet,
when to leave,
when to stay,
when to hold you,
and when even reaching for you
would be one mistake too many.

But when you close the door
in that particular way,
I give you a minute.

But not two.

And maybe that's the part
I understand least of all;

after all the wrong answers,
the badly timed jokes,
the cups left on tables,
the moments I got it wrong,

you're still here.

And that,
more than anything,
I don't understand.