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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #2183870
It's not you, it's me. I'll come around again.
Your spirit presses.
Your passion smashes me flat.
All your little protuberances of personality
tickle like an uncoughable catch
in my throat.

Every quirk that bristled my interest
when we first met
has sandpapered me past tingly
into numb.

Forgive my dramatic lunge for the door.
I’ll understand if you don’t invite me again,
but I’ll leave a glass slipper poised
on one stair just in case.
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