Before you ask me to leave,
I need you to return some things
I left with you for safekeeping, I
don’t want this any more than you,
and I would like this to be a civilised
goodbye, so just give me back the
hours I put in, staying up with you
as you chased sunsets that were
never yours to begin with, and refund
those inches, metres, miles I travelled
to make sure you didn’t fall asleep
without knowing how much you meant
to me, and while you’re at it, try to
pick up the little notebook on your
bedside, the one I scribbled poems
out for you in, and you’ll find an eraser
underneath– I wrote you out in pencils,
because to put your flaws down in ink
felt like a crime against what I felt,
but now that I look back, it was only
because I was building an escape route
for myself, a little exit to crawl through,
because you were a fire hazard waiting
to combust, and I guess what I’m saying
is that I don’t want anything back from
you, because all I gave was my own will,
but I refuse to give any more, I have
nothing left to fuel the fire you’ve built.