It was never any less true,
the way I looked at you, with that glint in my eye,
you know the one,
the one where I’m about to abandon everything I’m doing and dive into the shallow end of my sentimental slurry,
wading and waiting,
doing lengths of my despair,
until I found something new to feel,
and I scribbled and scribbled until it felt real.
I did it for you,
not just to keep myself safe and sane,
but as an act of love,
the only one I ever gave to you,
just the brief beauty of being admired and adored, publicly.
Didn’t it feel good to be called “mine” in rhymes and rhythms?
Didn’t you get off on the juxtaposition of me writing dramas about my desires for you, but then never looking you directly in the eye when we were alone?