I don’t want to talk
about books anymore.
You favour a misty fantasy to the drudge of reality -
             I know.

But I’m tired of fiction.
My bed is littered with it;
epic tales of
other lovers,
bowing with the weight of a thousand
a hundred thousand
lies.

Our talks on metre and rhyme have grown stale.
When will my melody, my enjambment
satisfy you?
Without the need for irksome words.
I want your lips to decipher mine –
                No, I don’t want a pen.

I don't want whispered sonnets
or soliloquies any more.
Shakespeare shouldn't shape your mouth.  
I want your breath,
not the remnants of his.
A kiss mustn't go in brackets, render words redundant.
                    Shh, no more.

Oh I can not find the strength to edit us.
Over and over.
I want original. I want harsh truth.
And I want you to love it.

I don’t want another paper romance.