Do i care if you leave world war III at my front door, love necromancer?
My father whispers to himself all the time. I know a secret when i see one.
The mutuality of our feelings are a secret society.
A feeling with multitudes—yet so skinny.
I mimic you. I love you, you necromancer.

I don’t care if you leave world war III at my front door.
Fuel the fire with secrecy. Burn the cold with my sweater.
Do you shiver from fear or temperature?—
As romantic and poetic as this roundabout is, it’s hell.
Set me on fire, you always held matches but never lit them for my shiver.
I lost the battle and the war and my native tongue to you.
You shiver from fear, love necromancer.

Stop asking me if I like you. I don’t know—I don’t think I ever will. And that’s fine with me. All I know is your reflection buried under the dust mites smudged on the mirror. I live in rented apartments with bugs scattered evenly around. You live in the articles that I never approved of. You live in silence hoping for someone to bring out the beast in you. You stay quietly around the corner. Observing every conversation. But you never initiate one. You never become the bear with claws. Rip their articles up. I see them still in my dresser drawer. Rip your teeth out. You still bite viciously through that fragment of paper.

The ale smell stained on my shirt. The bricked wall of my rented studio apartment. The state of dealing treachery. The ill-lit midnight lobby. The sun crayoning orange shadows over the ghastly, grotty bathroom. All for the mite chance of my words prancing on the article.