Aladdin or Another Lad?

Here's the thing.
I don't mind a man who says,
"please, marry me" within a few
weeks, in one month. Sure,
I will say to that. It's nice to ride
a Persian's patterned tapestry warm
with in the sun, sail into the pastel prism
clouds build out of evening.
Show me your world. I am always open,
seeing.

It's just -- a promise
made on first pale blush, in early rush,
tied 'round a blossom -- sounds nice,
isn't certain. It's a story drawn
for you in darkness, with your eyes closed,
when your breathing's even while you direct,
and star, and edit to all desire these pleasant
fictions, stories for and from yourself,
while you wander into sleep.

Already you have learned how poor
I am a sleeper -- turn a light on in
another room and I'm awake.
I laugh and love to hear you tell me all
your flights of fancy, up among the clouds.
One must be levitous to levitate! I don't begin
any balloons with a pin.
I've grown kinder lately.
I could be called, even - maybe -
more humane.

But much of what I saw you do fell
in grain against your cut of words,
the seasons of your telling.
Some more, some new, additional,
which you recounted, felt even more cross.
Was I the only one who heard dawn birds'
voices rise up in a chorus, like a new
light coming? Moth-holes descended like dust
before my eyes on the carpet we were riding.
I saw at both ends the weave unraveling and thought,
ugh. Not my rug. 
Not what I want for my floor covering. 

You are a decent salesman, sir -- your marketing's
always blaring. I commend you that. With one compliment
for your fever pitch, now, I must be going.
You continue selling subpar furnishings to fools with fuzzy vision.
We've exhausted the value of my time here.
I am wide awake, and so,
leaving.