You think you’re John Wayne and you act on it. You tell me, “Talk low,” and I whisper into your mouth a melody you’ve thought of not long ago. I mouth my words like the game that we are, standing on crooked lines of some borrowed time. You’re still the loudest person here.
You tell me, “Talk slow,” and I slur the syllables. I give you every word like it’s yours for the taking, treading each consonant slow and without dissonance — whatever I feel for you doesn’t matter when we’re together, your room floods, suffocating everything. And you’ve always wanted to break Moschitta’s record.
You tell me, “Don’t say too much,” and I only write haikus for you. The words string along midnight like it’s my lifeline, tomorrow I’ll be somewhere downtown and your room will still smell like me. I also remember you’ve read War and Peace twice.
You’re such a man. You know those words have floated in and out of short spaces between us — they’re prison for you. You’ve coloured me stupid grey and I’ve mistaken you for a besotted artist living off of pseudo torture. You blame the internet for your ugly syntax and I laugh only when you laugh. But I’m free falling here, showering my sky with something new and you’re only just a man.
You’re calling the cab as I’m holding back the stinging in my eyes. If you touch me now, you will burn. We laughed all night even if you’re not funny. Your sudden quietness is something I feel I should apologise for, I gave my hand out for something that should have remained untouched.
You think you’re John Wayne but we’re not burning in daylight. It’s you that’s on fire.
