oh.

he drops love words like atom bombs,

but his journal's never heard your name.

he wrote the book on poker faces,

dealing out diamonds and hiding all the aces,

leaving conversations open like sores,

but closing all deals.

there's no room for negotiation.

"oh."

he's got you believing in endless weekends and infinities,

smashing your clock against the wall to prove that time stops,

praying to music you wouldn't care for otherwise.

he's got you wearing all black,

rearranging your playlists and hours,

cutting your dollars in half and dyeing your spirit to match his eyes.

he's got you wrapped around those same fingers

he's intertwining with everyone else's.

"oh."

you might look good there,

where waistlines matter and hours can be spent like currency.

you might feel good there,

where his words and his eyes swallow you like a solution,

the place where bodies are more profound,

and listening to your heart is no longer a suggestion,

where sin don't settle,

where you belong to him.

where he has purchased you with batting eyes

and all the words you've been waiting for novels to verify.

where you belong to him.

but he doesn't want you.

he doesn't want you, darling.

he just doesn't want you
to forget him.

"oh."