Funny how when my world goes indigo,
I care so much about what you think.
I want you to watch me walk away,
Marks you still see; a tattoo you can’t unink.
I want your eyes to trace my curves,
To cover skin that you don’t touch anymore.
And yet it is only when the air is heavy,
That I look for you to knock at my door.
Why do I think like this?
I want to slap myself silly for these thoughts.
I have others on my mind and in my life,
Ones who would be and mean so much more.
I have crossed out your name and torn
the last of the photographs from my wall.
It is only when the black dog stalks me,
That I think of your dark head at all.