THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I'm awake all night, I maybe sleep 20 minutes at the most, tossing and turning and wanting to cry without wanting to have let you make me cry
I keep thinking about you and the fucking French girl. We sit across from each other outside a pub in Camden the night I got so angry, and you plead with me to tell you the reason of my disdain for her, my disgust with you over it- but I don't tell you. I just sigh. You continue to smoke.
I know how it is. We all know how it is.
I walk into a room where you're talking to a boy we know. He was the one who told me about you two, even though I didn't ask. You've taken some drugs, you've been watching the French girl paint all day, staring at her, watching her as she paints wave after wave on a big blue canvas.
The conversation stops on the word "chaste" as I walk in, you both turn to look at me