We lie wrapped in bedsheets
woven from our own mistrust
and own insecure failures.
You don't believe I'm a poet
as I write the words
of our makeshift affair
on napkins stained with
last night's coffee
and your shirt draped over
my trembling body.
You look at me from across
the vast space of the room and I feel
your vicious smirk as you watch me
from my window-seat,
watch as I try to convince myself sunlight
will warm my cold ivory skin and save me
from your smoky sin that I've tangled myself in
and that I can dismiss you to just words
scribbled away like nothing.
Your fingers brush,
pale lips and ivory cheeks
trace the scars of yesterday and tomorrow
that you always leave.
You don't believe I'm a poet
you mockingly echo that thought
as you carelessly fumble with pulling
and pushing at the boundaries I set
so long ago after the first time
in the foggy and dim bar
when I found you pouring your dark thoughts
and haunted heart through a Mic and an amp
But now,
I'm the one cursing you
in immortal words and dark thoughts
so you never forget that night.
and you never forget the day
I never came back.
I am the poet.
and you're nothing more then a petty line left in a dusty journal on the shelf.
