I want this to mean something.
I want you to spend nights
Making your hands feel like the
Ghosts of mine.

I want you to cry in bed until
You rip the soaked cases off of your
Pillows; turning to weep onto
Barely encased feathers.

I want this love unchosen to
Lay its scent upon every regret
You create from now until death.
I want this to mean something.

But your page has turned. Ah,
Young ones' do so swiftly.
The drama is mine alone not
To share. In your aim, I'm still

Rummaging around on the floor
For a loaded gun amongst the ones
Between the bodies, until someone
Yells *"cut!"