Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.

The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

I wore you on me at all timesLike I now carry my pen.Unlike your own opinion myBelongings must have a function.You bled through the ink of my lines andTo be my subject nursed your thirst.Was it my fault, or your own, that you forgot—I do not deal in tender verse.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI’d empty myself on paperEvery single morning’And it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:‘Every single morningI’d empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat’s why I wrote you letters.