“I'd die without you…”
I'm pinned against the pillow now,
crumpling under the immense weight of the words
sunk much too deep to reject –
meant to be flattering, yet
a fairly dismal remark in context,
and, of course, spoken with expectance
of some grateful echo.
When translated: “I'll take my last worthwhile breath when you do,”
I suppose it is tragic romanticism at its finest.
Fearing my unconscious role in such a cliché,
I whisper “It's not you, it's me,”
and see myself to the door.