Sick. My stomach sits unsettled.
Moaning like ghosts, mostly meaning
My mind is stuck
On you.
Haunted, hunted like a buck or stag pursued by the sunrise on an empty street in suburbia. Soon to be disturbed and yet it stays still, staring at the beams of light edging over the horizon. Hypnosis of the kind where your skin freezes and pimples, ripples, in wonder when you find the reason you’ve been stuck there all along was because this short lived sensation means more to you than carrying on.
But like a buck caught in the sunlight, it’s not meant to be. The sun doesn’t want the stag, just like you don’t want me.