Salt fields
I should not (I do not) think of you
but i hope that you think of me.
I hope that your memories of me
(honey in the sunshine) burn
twist, like a knife in the gut.
But I hope you are warm.
The Tortured Artist should write about the things which torture
(it’s in the title)
But thinking writing typing mulling-over
You
is like staring into the abyss that stares back
and frankly I’ve worked too hard and too long to get where i am
to let you breach these defenses again.
again.
But a not so deeply-buried part wants you
to feel me in every touch
think you’ve seen me around only every other corner
in those lyrics
in that sunset
in that joke
down that road
Remember me. And weep.