Nerves and wondrous wall art

Unnerving it is, to look into her eyes,

and sit across from her, at a dimly lit bar,

with brick walls, and The Police posters,

she scoffs at me often, ridicules my tweed jacket,

then apologises in the same vein,

almost mockingly, as if in a masochistic charade,

but I am too timid, and she is too pretty,

made prettier still in conversation,

about poets, dreamers, and wondrous wall art,

She wonders why my writing is so brooding and dark,

dullingly repetitive,

and I can’t really tell her,

that it’s been that way since her departure,

but now that she’s back,

I know my writing would probably be,

a tad too romantic, less visceral, less real,

but I don’t care,

even if it means that I can’t write anymore,

I would still want to sit across from her,

in a dimly lit bar, being ridiculed,

and having to look into her eyes,

nervous, every single day of my life.

 

 

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