Elijah Kampsen


“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.

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