Play.

you like it when

i tell a story,

play the parts and

play with the words.

you like it when

i help you,

set all aside and

forget everyone but you.

you like it when

i am but me,

anyone, not this mess

of longing, of caring,

of a heart that beats too fast

of eyes that betray too much.

how could i have ever thought otherwise?

Or worse,

hoped.

i walk by your side

night after night

intertwining fingers and

your head on mine.

i play the parts and i

hit the notes and i

move your way and

it’s still my fault.

when it’s just me,

i don’t recognise you,

when it’s always us,

it’s not me more.

i was stupid to think,

to think you’d ever like me

for who I am.