The person you think of when you stand in front of the ocean. That’s the person you’re in love with.

I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with ones who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2am, wild eyed and sleepless and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.