Me and My Mistakes

I am impossible; you are a saint.
Improbable, impassive, I impugn
Your capability to hold a tune;
You drink a fairy sherry, feeling faint,
As quaint as quietism. I drink paint,
Embracing the embarrassments of June
(Some doltish drivel underneath the moon),
And you, revolting, will resist restraint.

You have avoided me and my mistakes,
The residue of resin where I sit
That keeps me where I am: I stick to it,
You fly from fallen love, for both our sakes,
And, somewhere in the snickering of snakes,
I'm pretty sure I also heard you spit.