She sees only what she wants to,
never what she can.
17 past noon, and depression seeps in.
Soon, I must get going.
Before she notices that I am gone,
I will be back.
She will poke away at my side with her thorns.
Stab and grind till blood and bone.
And I will console her misplaced heart.
Her last excuse for a connection.
Like countless before her,
and countless after,
glee with turmoil,
smiling ear to ear.
Convulsing every second, stealing focus.
Warning lost in a mesmerizing lie.
Before the 45th comes, I must return;
She will disregard my company, otherwise.
She will have forgotten my face,
save for the thorn in my side.