I'm writing poetry with my desires
as the lyrics to our sorrow song;
It's not the tune you've been longing to hear,
but since when did that make it all wrong?
We were once so obsessed with our own artifice
that we hardly had time to share smiles.
But now I cough, and I choke, and I sputter up smoke
while you waste away all of those wiles.
I won't fight with you or against you, my dear.
Sometimes death invades from the sidelines,
and sometimes it takes a new form.
So, no, I won't be upset, but I'll hardly forget
if you push me down in an attempt to find home.
If friends are enemies then
enemies are friends,
but you are
no one to me.
