conversations with paul are a one way street, an play in a single act between himself and a shadow (me):
in which Actor tells Actress he loves her and then watches as her feet burn holes into the stage and sink beneath the floorboards, while he dons purple prose and begins to blame your fire for the forests he's burned with his hot breaths and angry manuscripts
and the guilt he peddles is contagious it wets through your layers to dillute your kindness, your sorries, your innate empathy for people in pain and when he's not here, he's whetting his words and staking them in your soft soil in the middle of the night while you lay unaware but dream that a thief sweeps through your garden and uproots the best and most purposeful foilage, unguarded even by the moonlight because such a thing could not disguise a lack of a a person.