Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Too Much

I’m her favourite girl,
fairweather in my affections,
flickering out like a candle in the wind,
but lighting up, like magic, when the mood takes me.
She is my lonely Island lover,
lost at sea and lost to my sweet summertime seductions.
I place all my troubles on her tired shoulders,
singing her songs about all of my bad dreams.

I treat my Daddy mean,
spending all her money,
dripping my kisses, like honey, down her tender, troubled throat,
blinking with indifference as her brown eyes brim with tears.
It was July forever when I would lie in her arms,
harmless and heartfelt,
but summer always ends,
and I ran with the autumn rain,
leaving behind a body that could only cry,
and the promise that I’d return,
when the seasons changed.

I never told her that I loved her,
I just filled her home with heathers and wrote her a record,
revelling in my deviant, distorted devotion,
until it disturbed me,
and I had to disappear,
but, in my absence,
as she cried herself to sleep,
surrounded by the memory of me,
she finally understood how I felt.

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