He thinks I write for him
Pouring laboriously over prose that
Sweeps him away like a current
It is his love of disaster that keeps us
Entwined, not the sound of my laughter
Fingers twitch, mind swells and he pulls me
Reluctantly across another stage of
Which he is the omnipresent master
Churning my words into oblivion, getting
High on sonnets and lost in translation
He leaves me shouting at mirrors, my
Sideways glances fall short of his vast
Interpretations, when I told him I was
Leaving he wrote me thirty love letters
Desperately believing we will end up together

3AM Thoughts // AKA “Me Walking Away Is Not A Romantic Act.”