She was an artist

Spilling punch-drunk-poetry as she giggled & breathed in imohsonaive

&. You. love. It.

She left sharpie messages in my bedroom drawers her clichés & parodies sprawled out in ink

Like the love hearts she drew on her hips when she was bored

Hiding the things I tried to see in her eyes before she looked away,

changing the subject to another form of denial.

Chipped and chewed her nails leave marks of acrylics & watercolours all down my back

((but im not a canvas & she knows it.))

sometimes she smiles & pretends it doesn't matter

She whispers the lines of starcrossed lovers in my ears & then screams

"but does no one remember they die in the end?"

She was a born romantic in the worst kind of tragedy & just another complex

She can paint me beautiful, but there are no "I love you's" in her p.o.e.t.r.y

(she doesnt belive in writing fiction)

Because she is just another peter pan alter ego,

minus the tights with a little more heartache

but im still borderline obsessed and shes half dressed,


her mouth on mine,


her hands through my hair

& then im second star from the right and straight on till morning

"Think happy thoughts" she says drinking down stardust

as she hands me a thimble pretending it's a kiss

a goodbyes never been such a fairytale dissaray

as her feet leave the window sill (like i always thought they would(n't)

& im still waiting, hoping she'll come back for her shadow

& I hate the way you cant love me