I thought to give this to you like a parting gift, but then why, when a word's pretty enough to you. I think the world of them, and these are some of my most significant ones. I'm the writer, but you're the poem. You're the window on the train back home. I look at life, but only ever through you, thinking of how I'd rather not think, and then maybe even unthink the things I've already thought. I'd unthink myself if I thought you'd miss me. I'd change the shape of my mouth if I thought you'd kiss me. I was hoping somehow we'd end up together, outside past midnight and smoking cigarettes. The wallpaper inside my brain is decorated with your face. I'm lonely for you only, and I'm trying to convince you that I'm something you could love.
