Lunga is unavailable at the moment
She is busy, yes, very busy being busy
Can I take a message?
I'll be sure to let her know that she is wasting her life away
Whats that? She shouldn't be sitting behind a desk
Glaring hopelessly and daydreaming gloriously about life beyond the window
Doing frivolous paperwork that is working her into an early grave
Crushing her soul with each second she stays cooped up
in small talks, heavy sighs and frequent walks to the toilet
Alright, anything you would like to add?
Okay, you say she should be outside in the rain, and the sunshine you say
Masking all the beauty
Speaking canvas, hearing paint and writing art
I'll be sure to let her know
Thank you conscious
Good bye.

I held the door open
with no intention of letting him in
Answered his calls, replied his texts
"Okay" "yes, I'm fine" "what's that?" "Oh no I'm busy today"
I'll be busy tomorrow
I'm always too busy doing nothings
but enough not see him
He is determined
I am his one, I am his only
and only I will pull the trigger
But not now.
I hold the door open as he races up the stairs
sweating...heaving...trying
I cringe at the sight of his desperation
He will never have my heart like before
I will never give it away like before
This I know and am sure of
This he doesn't
Like dangling a biscuit in front of a dog
watching him slobber
I take a peep, lean all my weight against the door and shut it close
and listen to him whimpering outside.

E. E. *******’s “I like my body when it is with your body”. On completion of the reading, I noticed that there is a type of love. Foreign and inaudible to me.
And never have I been loved as such.
He wrote about her. What a treat, to be with someone I inspire so much that he would write such careful words about me.
What is sad?
That I have loved in a similar way. Writing, expressing your beauties.
What is sad?
In turn, I have never been loved and written of. Never felt it. And so I hope someday I am with a someone who not only loves me openly, but secretly, in solitude, with a pen and paper.