writers are often in love or lonely

i don't know which i am
or which i'd rather be

i just know that i'm in love with you
and you're not in love with me

its squeaky floorboards
its broken glass
its over grown trees
and over grown grass

i can't take care of this home
let alone myself

go to art galleries with her when she asks
even if you don't understand the art
let her explain what she sees

let her sketch you while you're making her tea
having a bath
watching the television

let her paint on your back
let her paint on the walls

and most importantly ; let her give you all the love she has

when we were over
i started speeding because i needed the rush

i needed the rush to let me know that i’m alive
and also to let me know that i can go  , at any time.

i knew i needed to slow down
but how could i slow down
when i was running away
from what was

how could i slow down
when all i could see
was his face in my rearview mirror

even though he was haunting my every move

all i could think was

how could i (get him to) love (me) again


____


i never slowed down , that’s the thing.
there is no happy endings to this.

but i did come to a complete stop

everyone around me is going 100 kilometres an hour

i’m putting on my brakes

i’m bound to crash,

maybe that’s what it takes

observe her like a piece of art
treat her like a piece of history

i want to recite my favourite poems to you until you get tired of my voice

but i secretly hope that never happens as well

because these pages , though the words of another human ,
spill my soul

they’ll teach you how to understand me better than i ever could