I wrote you a book,
did you keep it?
Did you look?
When I stole your glances,
out your cracked window
two stories up?
Did you eyes follow me down your steps
when I slammed the gate?
When I spit on your lawn,
with my heart in my hands
that you tried to give back,
but it was already too late?
I wrote you a book,
four volumes long,
but all with same plot,
and the same stupid songs.
There's a chapter in there,
somewhere towards the back
it's covered in blood
and it's written in black.
Somewhere on a mountain,
high above the sea
there's a woman in red
and she's smiling at me,
she says
"Stop running in circles,
because you can't stop looking back,
chin the **** up
and plan your attack"
There's a stain in the stairwell
where blood leaked from your hands,
in December at midnight
under layers of sand
there's dust that shouldn't
have choked that young man.
When I checked your watch,
grabbed your wrist in an alley
and threw out the time,
into the trash can beside me
and picked up my words,
and left you there in street
with blood on your hands
and no shoes on your feet
I wrote you a book,
I wrote it for years,
I wrote it at night,
so that you wouldn't hear,
when my pen scribbled *****
and nightmares appeared
There's a cork in the bottle,
I put the glass down,
I emptied the bath tub,
and painted my frown
and looked up at your window
as I slammed your front gate,
no tears in my eyes
but I watched you the same
as a man who could murdered me,
and make me believe I was to blame.
I wrote you a book,
I never wanted to write,
did you read it all,
did you tear out pages,
and pin them on wall?
Did you throw it outside,
when rain started to fall?
Or did you skim it over,
for a second or two
then put it back down
thinking this can't be for you.
When my memory smokes in your mind,
like some rekindled flame,
I hope you remember
my face and my name
but not all the sins
my book burned on your brain.