I turned into a vampire for you.
I wanted to walk with you
I wanted to love you.
I never tried enough
too busy in my own head.
Overthinking the day
into sleepless nights.
It was my pleasure.
In my defense, I have the love
of my life
so close to me now.
He suffocates me with this love
and tells me
what sunshine I bring
to his letters.
I have nothing you value now.
The philosophy of men
who care about moments
more than human feelings.
The constant remains the gates of poetry
closing in on you
as you find my book in the trash.
Read me some Yeats Selected Poetry
1974 edition
and nothing will be forgiven.
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