I met you at the circus so we could sit down and talk,
but you just wanted to tell me,
“you’re a different kind of beautiful, you drive me crazy.”

I could taste your character each time we fell into each other,
throwing each negative idea into space, like it could actually disappear,
evaporate so to speak.

You thought I felt weak,
giving me excuses to live by and waiting until you figured yourself out,
reflecting on the last girl that fed you compliments,
but secretly had other men on the side never crossing your line of vision.

My voice was limited,

Icouldn’tputtogethersentences,
because you handed me reasons to feel nervous and light and alive again.

But how long will that last,
how much more will I endure?

And I’m writing this because there’s not much else to write about, considering you leave me hanging by the threads on my jeans and I almost can’t breathe when you are around.
I gotta talk myself down from this,
the packing and going and running and returning.

Funny, you weren’t listening and the strings I was dangling on stretched and wrapped around my fingers so I could pull myself back up.