I like it here in your point of view.
My eyes are strained and
it smells like cigarette and rose in here.
Early morning,
waving for a cab
my skin is lit in streetlights.
Never sure what you find beautiful;
never know what you want.
Writer buying coffee at dawn;
her hair is a chaos in the air.
It's so cold;
her nose is the coldest —
That's all I am at the moment.
Not sad.
Not particularly happy.
"Wonder what it's like to date you."
"What did you imagine?"
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
I feel anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Smiles.
White noise.
You're blinking, looking away
and at me.
Why do everything I write
sound like a lovesong?
Do you like it here in my point of view?