I turn into a fly thinking of your heart beats clenching on the memories and my brain like the web of a spider out on hunt?
How do I cease to not have a fucking holocaust in my belly with butterflies burning to death from choked lacerations and bile?
You come in my dreams - no, I won't call them nightmares - just rainbowed hope bubbles of your love friendship trust resuming to exist for real this next time that's never never going to be.
Is this love? They say, I'm sick crazy delusional and traumatised. Do you believe them?
Am I a desperate soul which just found something to love? Or clung onto any thing - something that didn't even exist?
You can't tell me with words as empty as the opaqueness of my glass windows, can you?
I wish you'd have loved me. For now, I do.
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