You said that you’d been seeking solace since last summer,
the siren song of solitude was so strong that you swam out into the sapphire sea without looking back.
I understood that,
but then you made the mistake of moving with the tide and washing up right back where you started.
It’s summer again,
and you’ve lost your mind somewhere at the bottom of my handbag,
grasping my hand through the letterbox with salty tears,
souvenirs from your ocean adventures,
dripping your drama all over my doorstep.
Foolish mid life crisis,
with your faded fatal attraction,
surging when the sun sets on the silent bay,
watching the skies for signs of my wicked wildness,
all the things that you missed when you were wading in the waves.
You wrote me a list,
of all the parts of me you loved to kiss,
and I wrote a song about another girl.
Am I cold and so unfeeling?
Do you think that you can fix me?
Maybe we’re both lost in a candy land of confusing delusions,
destined never to do better?
You traipse home in my old polo shirt,
keeping the cotton close to your chest,
sleeping in it, holding the hems like a secret,
weeping onto the fabric,
and I don’t feel anything,
because you returned after realising that the grass across the way was way past being green,
and now you see me in a new light.
What am I supposed to draw from that?
Am I supposed to feel special because you’ve learned your lesson?
Your nostalgia for my insomniac romantic rambles pales in comparison to my love affair with the only girl who really got me.
I’ve fallen deep into a rabbit hole of mirrors,
and I don’t think that you can draw me up with your pleas.
I take you back,
for the attention,
dividing my time between you and my new pursuits,
and you weep like a wounded wolf when I dress up pretty and leave your dinner in the oven.
Your erstwhile Miss España,
beauty Queen with a mean, bored stare as you state your case,
and I hasten to add, there is no new ground.
My shoes are too worn to retread this, my love.