I, all art and no matter—
I cannot write
with you in mind. I cannot write
at all when your smile
overtakes me on nights
I should be sleeping. I must wait
until the feeling leaves me.
Sometimes, it never does.
Sometimes, I have no choice
but to let you slip
into my dreams.
Come morning, I am
tired, I have a bad
taste in my mouth,
and I cannot bear
the sunlight.
So, I must confess
that somehow
you have made me
—yes, even a liar like me—
honest.