you find it strange that i bring my book to
bed with me.
but i know full and well that
you won't give me any passion-
that i must make it up in my mind,
forget about it or move on to
that even when we watch shitty television together, you sit on
an opposite chair and never look over at me.
but it's still you i wake up next to even if my dreams
are of a previous lover or a future fuck.
the books make you keep your distant because
you know their far more important to me,
that those men in those books mean
more to me then you ever will.
that it's their words that get tattooed on my body
that it's their characters that keep me company when
i'm upset and keep smiles on my face
i run to them instead of you now
and i take them to bed
maybe in hopes that you'll get jealous
and pull your body over to me
touch my shoulder in the night to see if i'm
still awake, ask if you could touch that part of me
or maybe this part..
maybe you, the writer should write your own novella.