She and I tied up in these metaphorical
half torn off clothing, I always had a thing
for nerds and words and whenever she
argued with me about her boyfriend
she did so with the precision of a bee
So we do this dance until the dejection
stings, me absentmindedly and her with
the fury of a thousand burning suns
or some damn poetic thing, I just like
her lips and I am no monster nor epic
for her to write about but I am sure she will,
and I will read with the utter admiration
of the immortality of the villain she's
portrayed me as--
for I am not that guy and she won't know
blue eyes, glasses, hourglass figure whose time
is spent wasted with the girls out
complaining about her boyfriend like
she always does, and I will skip in the rain
and will show up when she calls for me
on lonely night-- she knows I will
So I won't answer her phone call,
and won't read her poetry
like I always do.
