I've seen pictures of your old girlfriend
on the laptop you let me borrow, I was
snooping, looking for something to accuse
you of. You told me they had all been deleted
(I hadn't asked) you told me everything
was gone.

I've read messages, happy, hinted, flirtatious
coy poetry played between two parts which
haven't been officially scripted.

"It's weird between us now, isn't it?"
berated friendship, bartered love offered
in the gaps which remain unspoken
yet.

He does not speak of her
anymore. I have not asked.

Was it, unsolicited? Or does she tickle
your decadent fancy; you do the honourable
thing now and flirt with her
behind her fiances back.

Each trial has been blond and I fail
at not hating every single golden glinted thief
who stole something before it was even mine
to take.

You rise and I darken; I smile sticking needles
in your misadvised tongue. Still, these words burn
sweeter than those in my head.

Something whispers about that girl
who just walked past. Inside my crypt
things do not look good for me.