he did so like
the ****** poems
that I had
written for him
after the third and fourth
ones were written
he disappeared
into thin air
after thirteen days
had elapsed
he put in
an appearance
not one word
did he offer
as to why he'd vanished
his kind
are the pits
but the experience
with this fellow
has been illuminating
and now he's firmly
  placed
on a blacklist

Experience true love and proper death
in a single moment lasting longer than the average breath.

Feel every emotion under the fake-tan-sun-lamps
for the price of a walk and the Queen's head upon a stamp.

Talk about conversations you had in corridors with ex-girlfriends
with a clouded look back, blurred by your own camera lens.

Preach your side of the debate, recite Wikipedia pages,
listen and retaliate dangerously with more stolen words.

Holding hands under bedsheets and duvets and borrowed blankets
means absolutely nothing, like rain falling around those dog days.

Hot days and cold days and no days and everydays are the final lap,
finish, breath, throw up bits of sick and leave the stadium lonesome.

Walk away when the light is right
so the rings around your eyes look like jovial creases
instead of broken bits of I didn't last long pieces.