You know I read your books, right?
You've always fascinated me with your eyes -
very sparkly, dauntless, always looking for an ending.
The truth will be out, and I guess you will never
linger again with your systematic veins to which
I have become attached. Like a weapon in the making,
your silvery hair creating a shimmer across
my bedroom window. And it stains the whole atmosphere;
when you left and went back with your hobby -
knitting, fixing everyone but yourself, and to cavalry, too.
They're burning your throat, but you insist on saying
that you're becoming more at peace and unbothered,
like a succulent, but I don't see it that way.
I see lots of empty pieces behind you
and the places you went back in that no one thinks
you did. As well as the people you tried to ran away
from and the people you've left behind, only to find out
that they are the one. I am the one.
Don't worry, you've always been sunlight. I'd still pack
your bags when we go for a trip together,
and I'd still cook your favorite dish while
you scrutinize my behavior. Am I your date or your lover?
Don't you think we've come so far?
Don't you think I read you too much like your books?