It’s your symmetry, the sincerity, the fact you
claim to write.
Writers, I hear, are sad; and you know what misery
loves, and what am I again? Miserable, right.
The way you blink, the way your face holds your
eyes, and the tiny bags beneath them
destroy. They decimate. To think of you is to cringe.
God, place us in the same room, quick, so in getting
more familiar my infatuation fades. Without fail
I will forget you.