He's the writing on my back.
Didn't want to make it permanent, you know,
it's harder to remove than it was to scribble down.

He wrote the thesis to my story,
guess I took his word for it,
I should have read it over
but he breathes poetry easier,
than my smoke-filled lungs.
Exhaled into the winter
and watched the words form,
but simple, twirling limericks could never match his tapestries.

Lit them on fire with my cigarette
and tried to inhale that essence.
Saw him smiling in the center,
satisfied that he'd read me,
flipped open my pages
and took a peek inside.


Thanked him for not spoiling the ending,
because I knew he was my plotline all along.
He ripped apart my bindings,
and left me coverless on the floor.
That was just the time I realized
I never needed any of that.

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