My heart woke me up crying.
Poor thing.

Let's drink fire.
and love, and perish,
or at least we'll try to.

I picture you standing there.
Leaning your back against
the door to my balcony,
holding a glass of gin,
looking at me,
knowing me.

And in that transfer of light,
from dusk to night;.

I would have needed you more than love.

Beautiful and lonely,
brilliantly both.

I once met this French man.
Just a brief encounter; but towards the end of it he looked at me
with almost pensive eyes,
slowly he said "I could love you".
I laughed aloud.
Was it cultural differences
for him to have said that so casually?
Or was he just the brave sort?
I mocked him, of course.
Condemned his lionhearted statement even.
His eyes never left me, all the while,
they looked like a sad storm now.
Like somehow he already misses me.
And that was the last time I saw him.
Despite him asking to take me out to my favourite restaurant.
Despite him asking to take me camping underneath the stars,
Or for a midnight swim.
All the things I like, really.

A year later, and I'm still thinking about this
beautiful, brave French man.
And what could have been.
Haunted by his sugar heart.
But it wasn't my colour to romanticise happiness,
or the feeling of being wanted.
But he was right and, I was wrong.
He could have loved me.
I just didn't let him.
Wherever you are in the world,
I am sorry.
I hope you have a good life.

Explain to me why I dance to blood,
Look at me when I hurt too much.
Tell me why he painted me black,
and scrutinise my high when he doesn't love me back

My ***, my glade;
my performance, my songs.
You sweated here, you belong to me.
You thought of him, he'll belong to me too.

My ***, this glade;
our performance, the song.
Not yours to keep,
Never yours to keep.