He devours my poetry and throws it back at me in a colour I’ve grown to be blind to,
A colour that only exists in my mouth,
Shaded in three words I rarely use.

Somehow, he compares his sadness to mine,
And sometimes he would love to possess madness that only my veins design.
I do not want him to live for me,
I did not create him, but he feels created by my poetry,
He uses my poetry to justify his love
For a girl who has lost herself in the life of affairs.

I do believe in him,
But he knows nothing about me and my poetry.
I do love him,
But he’s too busy trying to find everything his previous lover was, in me.

I do care about him,
But he has not shown any willingness to learn me.
I do want him,
But I’m too impatient.
He needs healing, and so do I.
We need ourselves, more than we need each other.