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.