your need to always be holding my hand,
is a little confronting.
so she wraps hers in a towel
and punches through glass.
i need to miss you sometimes.
his voice on the other end of the line is
saying this into ears that beg him to stop talking
but the thought stretches out into a snickering smile
of that itoldyouso voice, and
it's on replay, every time she thinks of him for a week.

i want to be with you, but not near you
find your own space.
when she realises that she's so caught up
in thoughts that circle and dive like carrion birds
that she's walked right by his house,
she thinks.
feeling like wrapping her arms around him
kissing him until counting becomes meaningless
he might not say the things she wants to hear back.
so she shelves it for a sunny day.

I don't want to say it, but yeah,
over-attentive.
sunsets in the Neverland are much prettier than the ones from my window.
so I'd like to go back there now, if it's all the same
to you.

You thought that you'd found something different,
but that isn't me.
it's a losing hand of cards, dearest,
and you can't call it until you've offered yourself to raise the bet.

this phase only ever lasts three or four months.
and when beating her fists on broken drums,
screaming without a voicebox
into an empty crowd of
silence and pretending to be nice
is going to turn her
back into that girl, she runs.

We'll figure it out.
I'm going to burn out.
If we continue this way, it'll be disingenuous.
(something snaps.
okay, she says, defeated, and begins to pull back)

So, she says, throwing out one last line:
symbiotic, rather than parasitic?
without hesitating, yes, he replies.
please.
next time, it'll hurt less if you slap me.

will it make a difference if she promises to be good in the morning?