Late nights,
languishing and losing at the endless game we play,
always your girl,
always in the dark about what you think about when our lips lose control,
and love is let down,
one more time, for the fans.
Just one more passionate poem about you,
until the next time I get nostalgic,
one more taste of frantic, fruit salad flavoured forgiveness,
before I go back to swallowing my sins and my pride.
You call me, and I'm captivated,
fascinated by the strength of your sapphire eyes and the soft, strawberry song of your kiss.
This is too much for me,
but I won't give it up,
because for some deluded, dismal reason,
I still believe in us.
When I think about all the midnight texts,
silent but electric sunsets,
summers apart,
aching for the reunion of my gasping gaze and your surreal smile,
I just have to hold it all to my heart,
again,
just once,
I tell myself,
just once,
once more, for the fans.
I have been the rockstar's girlfriend,
and the rockstar,
the princess of politicians and the princess of paupers,
a goddess and a ghoul,
daughter of the damned,
and a tearful ingénue,
but for you,
I played my simplest and most sublime role,
the one I miss the most.
Let me play it again,
just once, for the fans.
No comments:
Post a Comment