While I refuse to give in to your ridiculous demands,

I’ll spend the night trying

to write something worth your eyes

Listening to brave songs and Baudelaire

murmuring in the corner


Unfortunately you’ll soon find out that chasing isn’t a two-way street

but apathy might be, and when you turn

you’ll find I’m not the trick in the book you thought I was

and only half as naiive


I can stand pitch perfect in the rising dark

your stones will stick in my throat, but I won’t give you the words

I spent all night with, in case you use them

It’s obvious that someone else forgot to be here


I thought that the plant in the corner of the garden

was dying, because I put it in crooked and it never gets water

but look; now it’s got two purple flowers


I’ll see you prop his book open

to the page that extols the virtues of the terminally drunk

and I’ll hide my notes

and turn off the music

and pour my wine into the soil.

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