(I am sick of writing love poems for you, so here’s another)*
Do not fall in love with me, I am a poet.
I’ll scrawl down your every word,
Your most innate gestures,
Your bent and whims;
That you will grow conscious of your natural being,
About how your skin breathes,
You’ll run your fingers down your face wondering if you are even normal.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll hate me.
I’ll write about you incessantly and obsessively.
When I’ll hold your face to kiss you,
I’ll leave ink stains on your aerial lips.
I’ll write till my fingers weep and lungs rip apart.
Do not fall in love with me, you’ll feel empty.
Because I’ll kiss this crooked stick between my fingers more than your lips;
This pale paper brighter than your smile.
I won’t smell of perfumes and lilies,
But ink and *** and cigarettes.
Do not fall in love with me, I am a greedy scribbler.
I’ll make your every colloquy an artwork (against your will)
That you’ll crave normalcy.
I’ll stay awake to watch you sleep at night
For my words, for my penniless art.
I’ll feed on you like a parasite,
I’ll script your existence in my veins,
You’ll have nothing of your own.
Do not fall in love with me,
There will be days when you’ll be talking to me in a fine-looking coffee shop
But I won’t be listening,
Because I’d be writing in my head, nodding along, smiling mindlessly
And your soul will ache.
Do not fall in love with me because more than anything
I want to be an obsessive writer.
I’ll forget your name,
Thinking if I should call my character Kurt or Keith.
You will feel trivial and ignored.
Do not fall in love with me,
I won’t love you like an ordinary girl,
I will be self-absorbed and oblivious.
But oh my darling, my flame, do love me, else I’ll have nothing to live for.
